A Destiny
by Un Ciel d'un Noir d'Encre
Summary: A NEW CHAPTER, AT LAST! Because of a storm, Jane and Mr Rochester must spend the night in a secluded cottage. Rivers is away, so Edward and Jane will be alone with their longings and their demons. Will this night shatter their fragile friendship?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** How shall I put it? It's just horrible... but no, Jane Eyre, St. John Rivers, Edward Rochester and Cia. do not belong to me...They belong to the wonderful Charlotte Bronte. However, those few characters that are not from the original book do belong to me...

**Prologue**

Dear reader, I married him. Need I say that it was not out of love? Need I tell you of the violent turmoil within my heart?

Before the altar of that remote country church, there was a young man at my side. He had the bluest eyes I had ever seen matching a most beautiful profile, as pure as that of a Greek god from ancient times, and framing his alabaster face, wavy strands of light blond hair that gave him the airof one of those unearthly archangels I had admired in many a book, painted by the great masters of Florence. A handsome man he was, with his well-shaped hands and arms, his far-off gaze and calm demeanor.

And yet, in that cold november day, before God and men, I was not thinking about him. In fact, my mind had grown wings of its own and had flown far away from this country parish, my spirit had crossed over mountains and had survived storms; my soul had started a maddening trip into my past. But I must not talk in such a wild language, I should abhor these savage words and my thoughts need to be explained.

Delicate, almost artistical fingers took my small hand and I was startled out of my reverie. The cool touch of the foreign skin sent chills through my body; but I was not trembling with anticipation, dear reader, I was trembling with disgust. Oh, do not take me wrong, do not read in this hasty words an insult to the man who was slipping a ring around my finger, to him who was pronouncing eternal vows towards me. I said disgust, but this foul feeling was directed to my own despicable person, for I had fallen very low, and in my shame I was a lone culprit.

I was a liar. As Mr. Brockelhurst had once said, many years ago, dissimulation was in my nature, and I was a deceiving creature. I had always resented this unfair judgement brought upon me by the head-master of Lowood School, that inhospitable place where I had spent my sorrowful childhood. But in this grey morning, in the dimness of this House of God, at this agonizing moment of my young life, I realised that the loathed parson who had filled my tender years with fright had been right about me all along.

The ceremony was soon over. My mind was invaded with images of another church, of another place, of a life lived long ago, many centuries had seen the sun go down and emerge anew since these images had taken place, the pictures of this existence which was no longer mine, and the heart I had once possessed was devoted to another man, he who was dark and had shadows all around him.

So gentle reader, I did marry him, and if not out of love, at least out of friendship, out of duty, out of...despair. I was fulfilling my destiny, obeying the will of Our Celestial Lord. I, Jane Eyre, had been created to lead a life of hardship, to content myself with the honest reward that could only come by knowing that my insignificant being was useful to my brothers and sisters in God. I was to find a shelter in the vast desert of self-denial; all those thorny feelings of love, the neverending disillusions of passion, I would shut them up, throwing the Pandora's Box, in which they would be imprisoned, into the freezing waters where lost memories dwelt.

Yes, I had married St. John Rivers for I was to become his helpmate, and through him I would find my way to redemption; my shattered heart would bury its pain with endless labor; my beautiful England would disappear behind me, and my resolution would always push me forward. Broader horizons were waiting for me.


	2. Chapter 1: Stillness

**Disclaimer: **Nope, they aren't mine, although I wouldn't mind to own Mr. Rochester...Err, anyway, these are Charlotte Bronte's characters and I'm just messing around with them.

**Note: **I wish to write a longer story, so that's why I'm taking my time setting the situation and reasons for the futures actions of this story, but I promise that there will be lots of emotion in the next chapters...This is my first fanfic, so I would really appreciate it if you could leave some reviews...Thanks!

**Chapter One**

Many weeks passed, months following the day of our marriage while I prepared myself for the long journey that was to come. During these winter months St. John and I were seldom together, mainly because his pastoral responsibilities often called him away; he spent the better part of his days seeing to the poor, comforting the sick and helping the dying to depart. I did my best to be of use to him, but his taciturn temper was better suited to the solitude he so ardently sought, and so I was politely, but firmly, invited to dedicate my spare hours to other occupations. I must say that I was a bit disappointed by his refusal of my unwanted help; it did not please me to be allowed to have so much idle time, my philosophy being that the most efficient means to hush a crying heart was to dull the mind with an extended list of tiring tasks.

My overactive imagination needed indeed to be quelled. My nights were immersed in vivid dreams where I could inhabit a sweet world of my own. These visions were always related to the one whose mere name made me shiver with delight: my Mr. Rochester. I once saw myself strolling lush gardens transformed into a exotic labyrinth, a place under the musical spell of brilliant birds, and somehow I knew that this paradisaic place could only be India, with all the ripe splendor I had always imagined that country to have; but then, as I was nearing the center of the maze, the vegetation around me would grow darker, the lively chatter of the birds fading to an eerie silence, as I stood in front of the stony mansion where I knew my lost love was kept, a prisoner to his own tortured past: Thornfield Hall. When I knew, in my dream, that Thornfield was not a place where I was permitted to linger, and as I was trying to find my way back to the Indian rain forest, I would find out that every path in the labyrinth would bring me back to the old manor, as if it was forbidden to ever leave it. This dream repeated itself frequently, and though I did not take it as bad omen I was nonetheless puzzled by its possible significance, knowing that dreams were part of a hidden language. Most of the time, however, I looked forward to be taken by Morpheus to a kingdom where my secret longings could merge with reality; in my nightly escapes my dear master and I were reunited, we were close to one another, his presence was a balm that healed my battered emotions, and infinite joy was brought to me by such wonderful illusions of my unconscious self. My beloved Edward had not abandoned my senses, even though it had been almost two years that I had last beheld him, and my mind was populated with representations of him; his black eyes continued to lure me; his sarcastic yet tender voice would be sweeter to me than a lullaby when I was restless on my bed; his strong arms kept me warm throughout the coldest of nights; loving memories that saved me from my enforced loneliness. St. John thought that it was wiser to have separate chambers, knowing that our duties as husband and wife were not effectuated with regularity, and so in the middle of the night, as I was by myself, no one could disturb my meditations.

January and February left their snow behind them, giving us a bitter weather and a threatening sky. My useless stagnation was broken from time to time, as I went out to tend to our modest garden, which had been severely ruined by the harsh temperatures; my eyes were often tired of reading for hours at a time, not stopping until there was no more suitable light to continue my examination of John's religious books (my husband did not have a very high opinion of novels, nor of any other book that neglected to have theology or foreign languages for its main subject). Also, after having recited, over and over, several sentences in the new language I was trying to learn, my intellectual faculties would beg for a little rest, for something that could fill my monotonous days with a bit of excitement.

You may wonder, dear reader, why I was confined to the house, since I could have continued teaching the young girls I had been instructing for months. Well, let me tell you of the changes that had been produced. Shortly after our marriage, Mr. Rivers asked me to quit my position; at first I thought he was talking in jest, but then I rebuked myself for this foolish belief, the fact being that my husband never talked in jest. He told me that a Mr. Boyd had been assigned by Mr. White, vicar of our county, to be the new teacher of the rustic, little school St. John and I had founded. I was also informed that this Mr. White, having heard about our charitable aspirations of improving the lives of local, poor girls by the means of education, had thought it an altruistic idea and thus he wished to take over the organization of the said project; he, however, preferred to have a capable, experienced person, molding the innocent minds of these country, ignorant young girls; in the letter he had sent to St. John explaining his views, the vicar did not fail to remind him that, after all, I was "_merely a governess, and therefore lacking in the art of being a school-master". _It was not hard to read between lines to understand Mr. White's meaning: my greatest defect was being a woman. By these arguments I lost my post. At first I was greatly pained by this decision, since teaching those dear girls was the very last ray of sunny happiness I had in my barren life, but I came to realize that St. John had had no other choice but to heed the words of his religious superior, for a vicar had much authority over a simple parson. Later I would be presented to Mr. Boyd, my substitute, an elderly gentleman with sincere eyes and a kind smile; I took an immediate liking to the venerable man, being relieved as I was to know that, at least, the youngsters were in good hands.

But this new situation had robbed me of one of the main purposes of my newly acquired, married life. The preparations for our voyage to India would take more time that we had anticipated, as my husband was encountering a few difficulties to provide the founds we needed for our evangelical expedition.

Reader, forgive me if I have tired you with a somewhat detailed description of bleak, unending days, but in those moments my patience was throughly tested and my resignation was wearing thin. I am not a person to crave a myriad of settings, a diversity of sights, a thousand different tastes, if life had shown some mercy towards me, I could have seen my last days come and go in still tranquility, being spared by the need of constant movement; but, dear confident, you have known my story from the beginning, you have seen the scenes painted by my written words, you have shared my blasphemous bliss and commiserated with my unshed tears, so you must now understand what compelling forces urged me to go to the very end of the world, of my world. The man I loved had once spoken of a preternatural link joining our two frames, a spiritual cord that tied our two hearts so they could beat with the same rhythm; my departure for India would be the sacrificial knife that would sever this loving, invisible thread, and the price demanded could be my life, for I ignored if I would gather the strength to survive, day after day, forever inwardly bleeding, forever inwardly crying out his name into the abyss of eternity, "_Edward!"..._that name, the last word that was to be mentioned by my lips as I, one day, would be deserting this earth, soil of suffering.

My sore feet would never again find repose, nor would I find myself beneath a roof that could be considered a _home _to me my frail spirit was condemned to wander desolated landscapes for the rest of my mortal existence. I had become a pariah.


	3. Chapter 2: Stirring Waters

**Disclaimer: **The characters aren't mine, the ideas are mine...you mix these elements together and you get yourself...a Jane Eyre fanfic!

**Note: **I would like to thank the people who have left me those kind reviews, it's very encouraging. I hope you continue to like the story...I'll try to post more often, but, since I love reading so much, sometimes I just do not find the time to write. I want to make this story as long as possible...I LOVE long stories, but since it's my first fanfic, it's kind of difficult to find enough ideas to develop a very long story...Oh, and I apologize if there's a lot of bad spelling or grammar, but it's 1 o'clock in the morning and being such a long chapter I just didn't have the courage to check for eventual mistakes.

**Chapter Two**

On a pitch black night, while I was preparing supper, I heard the heavy front door open and close again, steps coming in the direction of the kitchen. St. John was home. I hurriedly took the bread from the oven, and began serving a large portion of baked potatoes on a plate, for I knew he would be hungry. As I was thus occupied I felt a serene regard fall upon my person; I looked up and found a pair of blue eyes staring at me, their expression veiled, defending the secrets they guarded.

"Good evening!" I forced myself to smile, trying to put on a delighted expression, but to no avail: I am afraid my smile turned out to be rather pathetic, and I ignore whether or not I managed to cover my face with a mask of delight.

When he did not respond to my greeting, I added: " I trust you had a good day?".

The plates were ready and a pair of wooden goblets were filled with fresh water (we never drank wine or spirits, for it was not convenient for good Christians to wallow in alcohol). I took a tray and transported the lot to the dinning room, setting our sober table with our humble repast. St. John kept gazing at me in the most exasperating of ways, never saying anything, with a neuter, almost blank look on his handsome features. I took my seat, and waited for him to do the same; I could have waited for a long time, for I immediately saw that he was not inclined to do so.

"I gather you have something to tell me, St. John? Do not hesitate" I said, wondering what could intrigue my husband so much that he would not take his seat, nor would he talk to me.

Finally he deigned to answer me. "I am not a hesitating kind of person, Jane", he said, always speaking in hushes tones, never rising his tenor voice; his manner of talking always gave the rightly impression that he was a man who carefully chose his words before uttering them. His icy eyes showed me that he was aware of every single, little detail that I, myself, would fail to notice, "As to having something to tell you, allow me to begin by reminding you that, if we are to eat our supper as civilized people do, then we might, perhaps, be in need of some cutlery..."

Oh dear, not again! It is true that I was forever forgetting something, always demonstrating my ignorance when it came to the wifely arts all married women were supposed to master; I was a mediocre cook, and sewing was not what I would call my favorite activity. Yes, I was rather lacking, and now I had forgotten the most elemental of things, for even a child was capable of properly setting the table! But, perhaps, these inattentions were to be expected, since I was most incapable of focusing my wandering mind on these chores; my thoughts were always lost, turning around that face so dear to me.

Endeavoring not to blush, I stood up and went to the kitchen in order to fetch the absent set of cutlery. When I entered the dining room St. John was already seated, absently looking out of the window. If the man before me had been my loved one, I could have laughed about my ineptitude at doing menial tasks; but he was no beloved master, his sternness did not conceal a sweet smile or a provoking phrase, and his voice would never acknowledge me as his "_witch_". Before this man, I felt compelled to be grave, my lips never freeing themselves to laugh out loud.

He intoned his short, customary prayer, blessing and thanking the Lord for being our Generous Provider. We began our meal in silence, and my heart sank when I tasted the potatoes, for they were burned...again. In my defense I must say that the blasted oven that sat in our kitchen was not, by any means, a most advanced artifact, but an old thing which kept burning all of my attempts to conciliate myself with the secret world of cooking. I was fiercely blushing, knowing fairly well that my companion would also notice this little inconvenience; perhaps it would be better to publicly acknowledge my shame.

With what must have been a mortified look on my visage, I denounced the untold evidence. "Err, I believe the potatoes are quite, err...overcooked, do you not think so?" My voice attempted a detached tone, as I continued eating my sad concoction.

The man before me ignored, very politely, my burning cheeks, answering in his unemotional voice: "Yes, I have noticed", and spying my face, taking pity on me, he added, "But do not fuss over this insignificance, Jane; it is but a matter of no consequence, because it is our spiritual hunger that needs to be pacified, not the unholy appetites of our flesh." He was taking my miserable cooking as a source of inspiration to demonstrate an evangelical truth; I am not quite sure if this reaction from him cheered my spirits up, but, at least, he was trying, in his very ecclesiastical way, to put me at ease.

When supper was over, I took the time to clean the kitchen while St. John went to the library, probably to write a sermon for next Sunday. When I was done with my obligations I came to the same piece as him, since I had the habit of reading a bit before retiring myself for the night. These moments that we spent together were not passed in lively conversation, but in a sort of contemplative silence that neither of us broke. That is why I was astonished when, in that cold night, as I was engrossed in a volume that enlightened me about the main differences between our religion and the very pompous cult of Rome, my husband decided to trespass our barrier of silence.

"Jane", he said, "perhaps I do have something to tell you", and he put his pen aside. I then noticed that he had not been writing a dissertation for his next service, but had been redacting some letters. His inscrutable gaze was directed upon me, as he came to take a seat not far from my stool. He seemed tired, which was not surprising, as he worked hard and slept little.

I put my book down and he understood that I was waiting for him to talk. He cleared his throat. "I had a argument with Mr. White today"

I knew him to be a very calm, unemotional man, so this confession from him surprised me. "An argument? With Mr. White?" The said gentleman lived in a far away town, and my husband saw him very rarely, their relationship being mostly epistolary. "But, I did not know that you had payed him a visit"

"No, I did not." He kept quite for an instant. "No, Mr. White came to visit Mr. Boyd's school; I heard that he was, so far, most content with the results obtained by those youngish girls" A feeling of pride swelled my heart; I knew those girls to be intelligent, and now no one could deny it. "Anyhow, we met there, as I was passing to have a word with Boyd; Mr. White insisted to come with me to the parish and I obliged him, knowing that I needed to talk of serious matters with him." St. John had been trying, for the last few months, to convince the vicar, Mr. White, of providing the funds we needed to begin our missionary adventure in India.

"I know, you had to ask him if he could help us to achieve our evangelical work in India" I could not prevent myself from interrupting my husband, because I knew that our future plans could very well depend of the vicar. I hoped that the argument St. John had had with his superior would not jeopardize our situation.

"Yes, I needed to discuss that subject with him, among others". The religious man would not take his sapphire eyes from the flames dancing in our little chimney. I was eager to know the outcome of his argument with Mr. White, but John (as I would sometimes call him), seemed to be reflecting upon some private thought, and I did not dare to disrupt him. A moment later he continued his narrative, looking intently into my eyes. "I believe that the little, verbal battle that took place between the vicar and I, has changed quite a few things, Jane".

"What do you mean?" I barely heard myself, so low was my voice. No, he could not possibly mean what I thought he meant...No, we were going to India; surely, there was nothing that could change that; it was our spiritual quest, our religious goal; we would leave England...I had to leave England...We...I could not stay here.

"Listen," I could see that he was not unmoved by our discussion, even though he tried to hide his feelings, "he was not interested in helping us. He did not see the importance of sending us to spread the Holy Word among the Indian pagans. He openly refused to help us, Jane."

"Well, it is not the end of the world, John. We can continue searching for someone who will provide for us, let us not loose hope..."

"No, listen to me...He will not help us, no one will." His calm exterior had became the very image of passion. His soul was communicating through his words.

"But you know other vicars among your relations, they will..."

"No, because Mr. White...he does not want me to be in charge of the parish anymore". St. John tried to compose himself. He left his seat by the fire and began pacing the room, running his hands through his fair hair.

"What? He...dismissed you?" I must have misunderstood him. St. John Rivers had a strong religious vocation, it was impossible to fail to notice his zealous work for the church, the loving care he bestowed upon his flock.

"Yes. I must find another parish, in another county. He was very clear; he said he did not wished to have me under his responsibility. You see, when we were arguing...well, I must admit that I lost my temper, just a little bit, but I lost it." The handsome features of his well sculptured face were changed into a bitter grimace; it was hard not to commiserate with him.

"What did you say to him?" It appeared that we were amidst a real dilemma.

"I told him a few truths about his behavior, some things of his life that do not fit the gospel. You know how he bothers to collect earthly goods, and how he loves money; he is a man who satisfies the body while abandoning the spirit". I knew all of this, for it was widely known that Mr. White did not lead an aesthetic life. "He did not take it kindly, a subordinate denouncing his faults; he was ashamed, he tried to defend himself but he knew I was not a man to accuse falsely. Jane, truth is the most dangerous of weapons".

It was so. Truth could hurt. _Veritas, _a word that could kill the heart and rip the soul. Every possibility of finding happiness on this earth had abandoned me because a buried truth had been spoken, light engulfing the darkness of someone else's past, of _his _past. But it was hardly the time to let memories fill my mind.

"What shall we do, St. John? We will be required to leave this house. We will be forced to start anew, from the very beginning. How are we going to manage?"

He stopped pacing the room, and casted a glance around him, taking in his surroundings as if he was seeing them for the very first time. Blond, disheveled hair, pale features deformed by the glowing fire of his conflicted heart, blue eyes shadowed by pain, hurt with disappointment; St. John Rivers had never seemed so human to me as in that moment of revelations.

"I have lived in this house for quite a few years now, it shall be odd...But I knew that one day I would leave it...But not this way...not...this...And this village...I must go...I will desert..." He was talking to himself; and I know he could not see me there anymore, for the eyes of his heart were seeing _her, _the woman he loved. I was fully aware, kind reader, that I was not the recipient of my husband's tenderest feelings; Rosamund, a young woman of wealth, had stirred the sweet waters of love who lay dormant in John. I had married him because I was carrying out a celestial order, for it was the only way to fulfill my destiny, but I had not entertained delusional notions of love between the stoic St. John Rivers and my passionate self. And so, I could not blame him for loving that sweet natured girl, for my own heart was guilty and soiled in such a way that I could never throw _the first stone_ towards a fellow human being. I was ashamed of the pure love I carried for another man, knowing that, as long as I lived, this beautiful, bitter sentiment would be rooted to my spirit.

"What are we to do?" He had forgotten my question, so I voiced it again.

He appeared to be calmer. "I do not know, Jane. I am incapable of giving you an answer at this very moment. What I know, however, is that I shall seek a new parish, a little church which might have need of my services; I have one or two relations outside of this county, I am already writing to them, asking their advice and hoping that they might know of a small community were a young parson would be welcome". His words were less agitated, a peaceful air invading his countenance. "I must not forget, Jane, that this is just a dark moment, no more than a black cloud passing over me, nothing but a trial; I have to find the fortitude to see through this darkness, I must be a strong soldier, never looking backward, for I have promised to follow our Lord, and this I shall do , even in the midst of a storm. This is all His will, Jane"

He expressed the same resignation I had witnessed in the past, the same meek acceptance I had once seen on the innocent features of a young girl; he reminded me of Helen Burns. Dear Helen, how her face seemed to stomp in my memories, how those hours I had passed in her quiet company were constantly erased by that heartless tyrant we denominate Time; and yet her words stayed, and still her pious message haunted me; the frail child she had been rested under the earth, but the substance of her character had accompanied me during all these years. Yes, St. John made me think of Helen, with his ethereal, seraphic beauty and his unbendable morals; my husband was a constant reminder of that chimeric Paradise we must struggle to attain, a tireless keeper of God's Laws on this earth, and my sinful nature was slowly subdued by his rightful influence. My eternal soul benefited from this exchange, but my earthly heart was constricted, a prisoner in some Red Room within me.

The silence had been restored again, and John continued writing his lengthy letters, missives which would undoubtedly be directed to some eminent, religious men, demanding their aid in our distress. It was then that I saw what would be my own line of conduct.

"I will advertise to search for a post as governess". St. John stopped writing, slowly raising his eyes towards me, our gazes locked in their seriousness.

"You shall not, Jane". After a few moments his eyes disentangled from mine, and he focused his stare on the sheets of parchment reposing on his desk.

"But we are in..."

"It is not fitting for a reverend's wife to earn her living. You have worked by my side teaching those poor girls, but that was considered as a charitable occupation, whereas a governess position is a remunerated activity; I would be scorned upon if I were to allow my wife to become an employee. A respectable, married woman is in the care of her husband, so it is my obligation to toil to bring the bread to our humble table." When he saw that I did not share his beliefs, he continued. "It was my fault that we are to be chased from this village, so it is I who will repair our present situation."

"St. John, do not forget that I have worked as a governess before." I had to retain myself from crying out loud that those few months spent as an "employee" had been the most glorious days I had ever lived.

"Yes, you have, indeed." He took his time to put a wax seal on an envelope before turning his eyes to me. "But, at that time, you were an orphan, a young girl, unmarried and thus responsible of your own sort. Today, however, things are no longer the same, I shall not bother to explain why. You will not work, this the end to this ludicrous idea of yours; I do not want to hear you talk of this in the future."

Apparently he had finished all of his letters, for he stood up and left the library, his papers under the arm.

I was not going to yield so easily to him over this matter, so I stood as well, leaving the book I had been reading on the stool, and followed him all the way to his chamber's entrance, which was still open. He was arranging the documents he had been redacting, putting them away in a drawer where important letters where kept. He saw me lingering at the door, which was not my custom to do, and chose to ignore my presence. But I needed him to hear me out, so I did not mind his cold manner towards me.

"St. John, I would like for you to..." I did not have the opportunity to end my phrase, for he swiftly rose his cold, unfeeling voice to impede mine to be heard.

"It must be clear that I have declared and end to that subject. We will not discus it anymore, is that understood?" He was now in front of me, his tall frame slightly hunching over my petite form, his stern regard fixed upon my face; there was no hidden gentleness in his voice, and yet I was not afraid of him; he did not posses that power to frighten me, even though he was trying to sound imposing. "Do not believe, that, because I have admired the strength of your character, I am in a disposition to let you do whatever takes your fancy. I know you were a free spirited girl when we met, but it is my rightful obligation to tame this strong will of yours, and I will not hesitate to do so, Jane. I am your husband now, and you shall abide my word, for it is the law which will be heeded under my roof." He then closed the door of his quarters in a brusque, rude way.

I was left in darkness for there were no candles lit in the part of the hall. I found my way, as best as I could, to my own bedchamber, and closed the door behind me. I proceeded to light a candle, and searched for my nightdress. When I was prepared to go to bed, I grabbed a little, wooden chair and place it near the window, which dominated the fields surrounding our very modest demure. It was certainly freezing outside, for even in my room I could feel the cold biting me; the moon was absent, and the sky was covered by low, black clouds, as if preparing for a violent storm. I was not tired, and so my thoughts came back to the words pronounced by my husband. We were in a most difficult, awkward impasse; we could not be sure of what was to come and, worst of all, we could not even be certain of the possibility of traveling to India. It was hard for me to accept this new set of events because you know, gentle reader, why I had become one with St. John: we were husband and wife because we were supposed to go to another continent, because we were to bring them the Word of God, and we would dedicate our lives to help the wretches to lead a decent life. My marriage to this unknown man was a sacrifice I had offered to my Lord, a deed which, I hoped, could wash me from my sinful past, from my consuming feelings, from my obsessed thoughts. I had spoused a man I did not love, and if we were not to abandon England my action would be senseless. I felt trapped. And then there were those other words he had also pronounced, those words which I knew to be right, for had I not given my word, before the altar, my hand in his hand, that I would obey him for the rest of my life? I could not break my vows now, even thought I felt strongly compelled to do so.

It must have been very late when I left my chair near the window, and got into bed. But, during my sleep, I was compensated, for I saw _him_ again that night in my mind: his black hair, as dark as the plumage of a raven; his penetrating eyes, where a hinted glow of tenderness showed; his caressing lips, so well dissimulated under a sardonic smile...If I could have lived forever in that ephemeral world of dreams I would have, dear reader, but reality was harsh and forced me to quit my borrowed paradise.

* * *

My monotonous existence continued its flow. St. John would not tell me if he had gotten any letters from other parishes, and, since I knew the answer which would be given to me, I neglected to ask. The days would pass slowly, all of them identical, all of them tiresome. In those days John was working even harder than before, so he would sometimes be absent for a few days, and when he finally came home, his face would be the very image of exhaustion.

My solitude was greater than before, with my husband away and the rain violently drumming against our windowpanes. I longed for other places; I aspired to a different life; I ached for another...No, but I tried not to; I tried to conform myself with my quiet life, I tried to grow to love the man who had been assigned to be my husband, I tried to follow the path of virtue and to distance myself from the tortuous roads of sin. But the heart is an indomitable organ, he rarely chooses to obey, and thus I was betrayed by my own yearnings; I lived in constant agony, although any doctor would have said that my health was in an excellent state, which was true.

We were already in the middle of spring. The hills around us were becoming greener by the day, the trees were showing off their beautiful leaves and flowers, invading my senses with delicate and fresh perfumes. I welcomed this change of scenery, for I would not longer be confined indoors by the snow or the rain. I took the habit of taking a walk every day, breathing in the fresh, country air for a few hours, eventually finding a spot of enchanted beauty where I could put my artistic skills to use. I had begun to paint again; the moors were somber and sorrowful in winter, but spring could change them into a charming place. John had never shown a penchant for the arts, and so I felt that I had no need to show him my little _chefs d'ouvres; _most of my drawings and watercolors would remain unknown to him. The pictures I would paint or draw were almost an intimate journal for me; they reflected very well my variational moods, and they were always tainted with a few strokes of melancholy. If I were to open my _cahier de dessin_ to you, dear reader, you would most certainly see a handful of wild landscapes, a few of them not yet finished; trees, mountains, shrubs, creeks, flowers, they would all parade before your eyes...and then you would see the portraits, the faces, or rather the face, for there were several drawings and sketches of him, of my love. It was most curious that after more than two years without seeing him, I could remember his visage so vividly, with an enormous amount of details; I was happy, or at least as happy as I could ever be in this, my new life, when I was drawing him; you will think, dear reader, that I am infirm of mind if I were to tell you that I could almost talk to him, when I was tracing his features with a drawing pencil...perhaps I was beginning to loose my mind, perhaps my passion was turning to lunacy; but I was content nonetheless.

One of those days, as I was coming home from one of my strolls, I came upon St. John, who seemed to be heading in the same direction as me. I had not seen him in a few days, and he had a haggard appearance and looked wary. He saw me, we greeted each other in a very sober manner, and continued to walk side by side, in that silence to which we were so used. Once we got to the house I began preparing some tea and a few cucumber sandwiches, while he bathed and changed.

When he was ready, he came into the library, for it was there, in solitude, that he liked to take his tea. I was going to retire after having poured the steaming tea and disposed the sandwiches, but I was retained by these auspicious words.

"I have received a letter" He sat and motioned me to take a place across the little table. My heart began to thump wildly within my bosom, hoping that my life was to be modified by his oncoming words. Had he found someone who would made possible our depart for India? Had he found a solution to our present unstableness? Had he...? But I would soon know what he had to communicate me.

He drank his tea very slowly, which was not illogical, for the infusion was very hot; I did not want to tell him to be swifter because I knew not when he had last eaten, but I must confess that I was growing impatient with expectation. When he put aside his teacup, I waited for him to begin.

He took an opened envelope from his dressing gown, and lay it on the table before us. His eyes were as unreadable as ever. "I have been proposed to take over a small parish, not very far from this county." He took a small cucumber sandwich, eating as graciously as if we had been in a tea party, surrounded by gentry.

"I am very glad, St. John" I smiled, still uncertain if these were good or bad news, since he had not specified whether or not he had accepted this new position.

"Yes, thank you. I am as well, for it shall be a new beginning for us and, who knows, perhaps we will be traveling to India sooner than we had imagined." His happiness, of course, was not demonstrated in any physical way.

"You have accepted then?" I asked, relieved to know that, even if he did not know yet when we would begin our crusade, at least our immediate situation was becoming steadier.

"Yes. Well, my salary will be inferior to the one I earn here, but I think we will be better over there. We will leave this house within a fortnight. There are still some things I must see to, before departing."

It was as though a great load had been taken from my shoulders. We were going away. Perhaps this new place would reveal itself to be what I was seeking, a refuge where I could let myself forget my past, where I could clean my soul and heal my heart; I was even wondering if, as John would no longer be under the direct orders of Mr. White, I might begin teaching young, poor girls again. Anyway, I was sure that this unknown village or town would be in need of our help, of my help. I longed to work, to feel myself useful, and so these news were most welcome. Perhaps it was because of the excitement of my new perspectives, but I had become very thirsty, so I poured myself some tea, which was a bit cooler by now.

"You have not said anything, Jane. Are you not satisfied?" My husband's eyes were rereading the letter he had taken from the envelope.

"Oh, no, not at all! I am most content. I think it was a judicious decision to accept this new charge. You said that it was not very far from here...where is this parish? Is it in a village or in a town?" I had never lived in a town, and if we were to inhabit one, I was convinced that it should be a most interesting experience.

"Well, I have not visited this part of the country myself, but it would appear to be, from what I have gathered from this letter, that we shall live in a village, but only a few miles from a fairly big town. On this letter they tell me that the reverend who had been in charge of this community has recently passed away, so they are now in need of a young cleric, that is why, when they heard of me, they thought I could be a good candidate." St. John kept on perusing the said missive, while I drank a second cup of tea, thinking about this new promised land.

"Do they give any more details" I asked.

"Yes, they say that we are to occupy a rather small lodge, which shall provided to us by our landlord, for the little village church belongs to his state. It is interesting though, because they do not have an excellent opinion of this man..."

"How so?" I would be eager to avoid having troubles with this landlord before we had even set foot in our new home.

"They tell me that the lord of these lands saw no use to replace the church's late parson; so I deduce that he does not attend the Sunday service very often. The villagers had to almost beg him to send them a new minister, and he finally yielded. Well, perhaps our evangelical mission will begin there, Jane, by converting this apparently pagan man to the ways of Our Lord." I was sometimes astonished by how my husband needed to save, from the flames of Hell, the souls of an endless number of stray sheep. "But I should not be surprised by hearing about this man's irreligious comportment, since he bears the name of a famous Godless libertine..."

"Why? I trust he is not called Casanova..." The Italian name was not common in our country, and the thought of being subjected to a pagan foreigner of bad reputation was not very reassuring.

"Oh, no..." John smiled lightly at my response. "Casanova, indeed. No, he is English all right. Our future landlord's name is Rochester. A Mr. Edward F. Rochester (1)."

Need I say, dear reader, that after having heard _that_ name, I suddenly stopped breathing?

**NOTE **(1): Here St. John makes the allusion to a libertine called Rochester, who lived in England in the 18th century.


	4. Chapter 3: Vicissitudes

**Disclaimer: **The characters of Jane Eyre are not mine, but they are in the public domain these days, so I take the liberty of using them. The names of the towns of Congleton and Great Budworth do exist, but I'm not sure that they are geographically close to each other.

**Note: **As you can see there are some things I have omitted for the sake of this fanfic, for example the fact that St. John knows of Jane's past relationship with Rochester; in my story Rivers knows nothing of this. In this fiction Jane and the Rivers are not cousins, and she has not inherited any money from her uncle in Madeira...That's about all I have omitted. Enjoy and Review!!!!

**Chapter Three**

A sharp intake of breath, an enormous weight obstructing my chest as if I had been deserted by life. I felt myself grow cold; I felt my hands tremble as they let go of the delicate teacup they had been holding a few moments ago...and then everything lost its sense in my mind. I was severely perturbed; it was difficult to fill my lungs with refreshing air; I think I must have been paralyzed. No, I did not faint, but I was as pale as a corpse, or so St. John would later tell me; I could see his preoccupied expression as he observed the sudden change which had taken place within me; his last words resounding in my head, echoing in my heart: _A Mr. Edward F. Rochester. _Oh no...it could not be...

Slowly my voice returned to me, my senses responded again; eventually, my breathing became more regular, less wild; I could venture to talk again, I was able to rely on my voice once more.

"I am sorry" I said, my right hand massaging my temples, my eyes closed; the very image of a distressed young woman. "I...It was foolish to go for a walk today, for I was too weary for exercise; I have been having troublesome nights...I need to rest" I attempted a faint smile to cover my unsettled features; I was not a deceiving woman, but under certain circumstances, I would let myself be tempted by an easy escape.

"But Jane, are you sure you are well?" His voice was full with unacknowledged concern; I was, after all, his wife and sole companion, and he was not a person to wish ill for his fellow men. The library was impregnated by an ominous silence, and for a lengthy lapse of time not a word was said.

"Yes, perhaps you are being too incautious with your health, for it is most unsuitable for a woman to spend her delicate and limited strength in useless, endless walks; you have tired yourself in an unladylike fashion, woman!" John had finally felt the need to break the stillness. His intonation had changed, and the masked worrisomeness had fled his speech, giving place to his customary uncaring language.

My husband was one of those men, so abundant in our days, who considered women to be frail creatures destined to spend their lifetimes imprisoned away from the world, keeping on living only because such was the desire of their fathers, brothers or husbands; but I would never accept such an antediluvian notion, for we are the equal of men, that proud gender who would die rather than surrender their liberty. However, in my present predicament, I was incapable of sustaining an intellectual and philosophical sparring with my religious, traditionalist husband; furthermore, it was for my benefit to play the pathetic part of the _demoiselle en detresse. _

"Yes, of course, St. John. I have a weak nature, and I deliberately shunned away all concerns for my physical well being, only to spend a few hours in the open; of course it was an entirely unladylike behavior". I had learned, over the years, that nothing gave a greater satisfaction to St. John than an argument easily won. "Oh, but say, you did not finish telling me about this far off little town where we shall live...What is it called, by instance?"

"But in your present state, I wonder if we should postpone this talk". He was clearly dismissing me, for he had already left his armchair, where he had been resting, and was presently leafing a heavy volume, which was clearly a Bible.

"Do not fret for me, I will go directly to bed, and giving me such details could hardly excite my fatigued constitution". Were we to inhabit any place near Thornfield Hall, that old house where I had tasted the sweetness of Heaven for a short time? How could this ever be, Mr. Rochester becoming our landlord? I needed to know more.

"It is not so far off, from here, as you seem to believe, Jane" He did not deign to look at me, while he addressed me those words, for the Word of God, was surely more interesting than my plain visage. "It is an insignificant village named Great Budworth, near the larger town of Congleton...I suppose you have never heard of these locations? That is why I saw no use in telling you their names" He was still absorbed by his evangelical reading.

I was astonished, greatly dumbfounded; he had said that we were to inhabit my former employer's lands, and so I had expected him to announce me that we were to live in Hay, the remote village near the industrial town of Millcote, in the vicinity of Thornfield; but he had spoken of places I had never heard of; a strange feeling grew in my heart; was I condemned to be followed by the memory of my impossible lover? Was he determined to follow me until I expelled my last breath on this Earth?

"Great Budworth? Congleton? And where is that?" I managed to ask, lost as I was, still seated on my low stool, near the mantelpiece.

St. John, lazily leaning on a bookshelf, lifted his face towards me, a bored gaze marring his Greek, symmetrical looks. "Eh? You are still there? I thought you would be gone, by now". This man had the unnerving capacity of being rude while remaining polite, always conducting himself in that calm demeanor of his.

"I know you are eager to be left alone, but I beg you to bear with me for a while longer". I was by now fully recovered from the surprising blow I had received, my practical spirit reigning over my pitiful sensibilities. "But I am rightly interested to know more about this new location, which we are soon to call "home"; it is just natural, for it concerns me as well". My observation skills were back, and so I became aware of the frightful disaster I had made in those minutes where I had lost my reasoning, where my body had been deprived of its faculties; my teacup, the one I had been holding, lay now shattered at my feet, amidst a pool of tea bathing the wooden floor.

"I cannot see why you are so very inquisitive about this village where my new parish stands. I guarantee you that you have never set foot on those unknown lands..." His neutral voice trailed off, a manner of his to indicate that he wished to end the dialog.

I knew I had to be satisfied with those vague answers; I had to be patient to learn more about this unwelcome twist of fate. I stood up and went directly to my bedchamber, not paying attention to the spilled tea, not minding the scattered pieces of the broken teacup, and fully ignoring my husband's bewildered glance as he saw me leave the library without cleansing the offended wooden floor.

"Jane," his implacable voice said, "I do agree that you are not quite your usual self today; you are forgetting to mend your earlier little misfortune with the tea." St. John was a meticulous, orderly man, and so he was greatly annoyed by any minuscule breach of cleanliness; however, he was not a man of action himself, but had the habit of ordering others around to keep his humble abode spotless. In that day though, I was so completely entranced by internal vicissitudes, that I was not aware of his demanding words...or was it simply that I did not feel in the mood of taking heed of them?

My chamber was cool in that enchanting spring afternoon, an odor of wild flowers assaulted my sanctuary, carried by the mild wind which came from the garden just beneath my window. But I was too immersed in my musings to perceive that simple beauty, drowning as I was in the dirty waters of hopelessness. What a mocking trick of life, to be reunited with _him_ again! I had endeavored to escape his very shadow, and yet we were to be confronted once more. I was convinced that when the dreaded day of recognition came, I would be incapable of raising my eyes to his, fearful of the agony he would read in my artless regard; and his eyes...I could never permit my senses to be lost in the abyss of those eyes; oh, I knew my hands would ache to feel the warmth of his skin, to trace the lines of his jaw, and my fingers would feel the impudent need to follow the exciting path towards his lips...Stop it, Jane Eyre! Free as you are in your mind, savage as you are in your heart, before God and men you are now in the possession of another, his wedded prisoner until that secret hour when death shall have mercy on you; these unlawful thoughts of elysian bliss will only take you the sooner to Hell.

An obnoxious headache was beginning to insinuate itself upon my poor brain, and my temples were on fire. I lay down on my bed, fully clothed, contemplating the unadorned ceiling, a thousand images flying in and out of my head, trying to solve the riddle St. John had presented me with. We were not to occupy the rustic church in Hay, but if that was the case, how were we to be connected to Thornfield? Great Budworth and Congleton? During the months I had been Adele's governess, I never heard someone refer to those foreign places, so I could gather that they were not in the surrounding fields of Mr. Rochester's manor. But then, was my master going to adopt the role of a distant landlord to us?

I felt myself drifting off to sleep, the warmth ambiance inducing me to drowsiness; but I was snapped out a deepening slumber by a sudden realization: _he _possessed another home, erected in a different region, far from the ancient house of the battlements! That had to be the solution of this mystifying enigma...What was it called? He had not mentioned that other estate very often, perhaps out of dislike for the place, and I could not recall the given title of this hinted emplacement, but I was sure that he had indeed told me of it. Had he installed his entire household there to abandon Thornfield Hall to the ravages of time and inattention? Why so? He had once implied the fact that he could have locked away his...I had an unexplained difficulty thinking of these words... _his wife_...yes, he could have forgotten her there, left in that country house, but he had judged its remote location too prompt to promote illness and decay. What was it that had pushed him to establish himself in such an unkempt environment? Unless he was searching for an escape from the pains of disappointed love; if that was so, I was extremely qualified to comprehend the reasons that were urging him onwards, all the way to the edge of his world.

* * *

A wooden trunk that creaked on its rusted hinges contained all of my worldly belongings. St. John had also prepared his luggage, but his possessions filled all of three trunks, for although his garments were few, the important number of his precious books occupied quite a large space. Happily we did not have the necessity to encumber ourselves with sturdy, voluminous furniture, for the chairs, tables and other such items that were distributed around the rectory did not belong to John but to the presbytery; a carriage would suffice largely to carry us along with our sparse material goods.

Mary, Diana and Hannah, after having learned of our impending departure, came to stay with us for a few days. They did not hesitate to help us with our hasty preparations, expressing at every opportunity their desolated feelings, provoked by what they considered to be a very cruel desertion of ours; but their insensitive brother would not fail to rightly point out to them that this was but the first and lightest of several trials to come, and he tried, to no avail, to prepare them to the idea that one approaching day we would sail across oceans for the salvation of those who still lived in paganism and sin.

The days passed with an amazing rapidity that made me forget the slow monotony I had experienced not long ago. I had seen a number of letters travel between John's new vicar and my husband, but I was not told of the new informations I supposed to be sealed in those envelopes; the Reverend Rivers was a man who kept generally to himself.

Dear reader, in those days from the past, my heart was surrounded by a mist of anxiousness, for I could very well fear the threatening closeness of disaster; my reckless nature was torn apart, divided by the lugubrious promise of doom and the foolish, yet life infusing, certitude of being at _his_ side once more, even if it cost me my life.

The appointed day presented itself, and I woke up long before dawn, accompanied by the shining stars decorating the inky night. Not half an hour later I was washed and ready to join St. John downstairs. I found him outside, dressed in comfortable clothes that suited him well, giving his elegant silhouette the allure of a fine voyager; he was discussing with a short, stocky man who would later reveal himself to be the coach driver.

Di, Mary and dear old Hannah were earnestly laboring in the kitchen, putting their efforts together to provide us with a basket full of fruit marmalades, hot bread of different kinds, sour pickles, ham sandwiches and other such delicacies; St. John and I would be mighty grateful of their thoughtfulness when hunger would torture our empty stomachs on our trip.

"Oh, Jane, do you think I have put enough sandwiches to last for the day?" asked Diana, a concerned tone filling her voice, as she was diligently cutting more bread, her beautiful hands covered with flour. "I would never forgive myself if St. John and you were to be famished! Oh, it must be an awfully long way...!" Her pale blue eyes looked at me, a saddened shade veiling their brilliance.

I inspected the box, and was amused of the exaggerated quantity of food that it held. " But Di, you could feed an entire battalion with all these concoctions!"

"Nonsense! It won't do for you both to go hungry!" She knew of her brother's unenthusiastic appetite, but I believe that dear Diana needed to be occupied by some self imposed task on that early morning of saying farewell, and so I let her be.

Mary's face showed her inner desolateness, and on Hannah's motherly eyes I could also discern a pitiful expression, and so I took it upon myself, even thought I was severely intimidated by the prospects of this trip myself, to cheer their spirits up.

"I promise I will write as soon as I cross the threshold of this new parish." So far I had entertained a fairly good epistolary relation with my sweet natured sisters-in-law. "And of course, you must promise that you will come to visit as soon as you are able to do so!" My attempts were rather successful and a weak smile illuminated Mary's handsome features.

"Oh Jane, but we do know how very occupied you shall be when arriving to your new home, so we do not ask of you to report to us as soon as that! But you must be certain that we intent to come to your side as quickly as humanly possible. I daresay Di and I will enjoy the change of scenery, and Hannah will need to make sure that St. John is eating well."

Hannah's regard was now humid, and some thin tears were already making a path down her rosy, full cheeks. "Ye must take care of him, mum...Ye know how he has no care for his health, and 'tis true that he eats very little; he was always like that, since he was a wee thing! Ye look after him..."

I put my arm around the matronly figure of the old woman; I knew that my husband was a most lucky man, for he had a handful of persons who held him very dear to their hearts; as for myself, I had never felt the wonderful sensation of being loved by my next of kin.

St. John's decided steps resounded in the corridor, and I knew that it was time to leave this kind women who had showered me with their affection since I had come here.

"I shall miss you all." My voice was almost a whisper, but it did not tremble. "Mary, Di...you are like sisters to me!" I took them both in an ample embrace, as we effusively kissed each other's cheeks.

"Silly, you _are_ our sister!" Diana was laughing through her tears.

"Jane, the coach is ready, we must leave now." John's authoritarian voice cut short our sisterly adieu. Both young women turned towards their beloved sibling, and literally rushed to him, sobbing in a low, pitiful voice.

"St. John, say that you will take care of you! And you must find the time to write! And forget all those insensible ideas of going to India! We will be so miserably alone without you! You are going so far from us!" Their voices mingled together, their vehement words were not letting any opportunity to the composed man to respond to them, and so he just held them close to him, his chiseled features reposing against their heads. After a few moments Mary and Diana relented their emotional outbreak and became calmer.

"May God stay with you, may He protect you and keep you from all evil, my sisters." A brotherly kiss on their beautiful visages, and he released them.

"Hannah, will you keep an eye on them?" His cold demeanor had not changed; a casual witness might have thought that this religious man had no soft feelings for his two devoted sisters, but it would have been a lie, because his was a deep love towards these fine young women; however, he was not in the habit of demonstrating it.

The motherly servant agreed to the reverend's request; my spouse abandoned the kitchen with us following him as we made our way to the front door. The coach was already loaded, the driver gripping the reins of four strong horses that seemed to be ready to take the route towards other horizons.

I climbed into the carriage as best as I could, an accomplishment that was not easily won due to my small stature, and accommodated myself near the window, the basket containing our provisions beside me. St. John did the same but he preferred to sit in front of me, a bible between his hands. I heard the whip coming down on the animals, and we started our travel.

I turned my head to see one last time the homely group left behind us, their hands waving, and I slowly waved back, uncertain of what was to come, ignorant of what my Creator had prepared for me, fearful and hopeful of encountering the lord of my heart again.

The rhythmical oscillation, caused by the horses' swift pace, did not fail to induce me to a deep lethargy, silencing with its languor my irrepressible preoccupations.

* * *

Reader, our crusade was long and tedious, so I shall not extend myself on its description. Suffice it to say that it was tiring. We ate when we were hungry; St. John read for hours; I either slept or contemplated the dull landscape, but very few words were crossed between my scholarly husband and I. It was almost nightfall when our carriage stopped near a cemetery; not far behind the bleak tombs, the shape of a low church could be discerned, its stone walls were dark with age; the place exuded a forlorn atmosphere, and the last dying rays of light bathed the temple with a melancholic aura. We alighted from the coach; a path leaded to a modest building, inconsequential in size.

"That's it, Reverend Rivers. Evenwood Parish."Tis grander when one sees it by day, ye will see." The stocky driver introduced us to my husbands new pastoral charge by these simple words. Even though it was ancient, the rectory was plain and unimpressive, and so I doubted if sunlight could restore to it what it did not possess. On sunny days the place was surely well shaded, for a score of trees surrounded the resting inmates of the cemetery, extending their shadowy protection to the annexed house on the right side of the church. The said abode was still plainer than the church; its deserted aspect gave an impression of unhappiness. There was no populated areas around, but a tiny village was perceived one or two miles down the road. Such was our new domicile.

A discreet light poured out from one of the windows; there was someone inside. I was instantly apprehensive; _no, my God, do not bring me face to face with him so soon, for I am not yet prepared, _I prayed. I was dismayed by the thought that in that depressing little house our new squire might be waiting for us, an unknown parson and his wife. I knew he would be utterly surprised, I could almost imagine the betrayed look in his eyes when I would be presented to him as the wife of another man. But, perhaps, I was only flattering myself, for he could have forgotten me after our ill fated separation; perhaps he was no longer captivated by the quick tongue and common place looks of Jane Eyre, with her inelegant face and elfish, childlike figure.

But if it was indeed him, this could only predict sorrowful disgrace for me, for I would be exposed before my lawful husband as a woman who had a hidden past, while being despised, by the only man who had ever mattered to me, for marrying to someone else. What could I do? I could not move, but was somehow aware of John walking all the way to the door; I, myself, was drained of all will to follow him, for incertitude was a strong paralyzer. The short, stocky man who had conducted us here was hurriedly unloading our trunks, making his way amidst tombs.

I glanced around, looking for a horse or a carriage, for our visitor had indubitably not come on foot...Had he brought _Mesrour_? Was he followed by _Pilot_? Because I did not doubt that the stranger who was expecting us was no other than Mr. Rochester, he who held my bruised heart in his tender hand. I found neither coach nor beast, but maybe that should not astonish me, since my Edward..._Oh, I must stop thinking of him in these terms! _...for _he_ had a marked penchant for taking long walks in the fields; he was very fond of nature.

The resonance of St. John's fisted hand knocking on the wooden door fetched me back to the kingdom of reality; his tall frame obscured me almost completely, as I was behind him. The echoes of a heavy stride reached my sharp ears. I almost closed my eyes, as if preparing for the shock that was sure to come.

I awaited, knowing full well who would open that door, that insignificant barrier. And then the door was thrown opened, and a face revealed itself.


	5. Chapter 4: Ruins From Bygone Days

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, Jane Eyre's characters don't come from my imagination.

**Chapter Four**

A well dressed, elderly man stood at the threshold, dimly illuminated by the candle burning in his left hand. The gentleman examined us throughly before relaxing into a sympathetic smile that creased the pale skin of his face. He was clad in black, and in his right hand he clasped a fine walking stick.

I can only imagine that the sigh of relief I emitted was most audible, an almost sonorous expiration. The person who had been waiting for our arrival was not Mr. Rochester. I could try to compose myself again, knowing that I had avoided a nearly disastrous encounter. And then I could rebuke myself for my silliness: _why on Earth would Mr. Rochester feel inclined to come to wait for his new tenants himself, bidding an amiable welcome to people he did not even know?_ _He had plenty of other, more important, things to do..._If he was in the county, because, knowing him, I was only too conscious of his inclination for visiting the continent. Perhaps my apprehensions were not even valid, seeing as it was possible that our paths would very seldom cross.

"But step inside at once, my dear Reverend Rivers, after so long a voyage" He removed himself from blocking the entrance and gestured to us to enter. "And I presume this charming young woman must be your wife, Mrs. Rivers?" He inclined his head a bit, a sign that he acknowledged my presence.

We penetrated into a rather small living room. The furniture disseminated around had no particular artistry, but seemed practical enough, and it was fitting for a pastor's cottage.

"I am Reverend Joseph Glyver, from Congleton." The aging man presented himself. " I was most eager to meet you, my boy, so I told myself that it would not go amiss for me to come here and wait for you to arrive. Besides, your landlord refused to make a detour to the parish today, and so it was expected of me to show you around. We shall talk about the particulars of your responsibilities as well, though we shall do so later." The brief allusion he made to Mr. Rochester caused me to listen intently, hoping that he would extend himself on the subject of the landowner, but I was to be disappointed.

The ecclesiastic spoke with a jovial voice, doing his best to put my husband and I at ease. We followed him into every piece and chamber as he gave us a detailed account of the little modifications and reparations needed by the deteriorated abode. The house on itself was, as I had already perceived from the exterior, of unimportant dimensions, but, in truth, it was more than sufficient space for two people, especially since St. John was in the habit of spending so little time at home.

When we came to the living room again I saw our baggage distributed near the entrance, as our driver waited for my husband to give him his due. When he had been payed, the man left, a sound of horses advancing at a canter signaling his departure.

"It was very kind of you to come here to assist us, sir" The phlegmatic voice of John said. "Would you mind if we went into the library to discuss important matters of my appointment?"

"But of course, my young fellow! You must be impatient to know everything that will be asked of you." It was evident that St. John did not appreciate to be addressed as "my boy" or "my young fellow", but out of respect for his older colleague he did not say a thing.

"That is so, Mr. Glyver. Jane, would you be as kind as to prepare two cups of tea for the reverend and myself?"

"Oh, but she will have a tremendous difficulty carrying a bucket of water from the well at such a late hour" came the alarmed voice of Mr. Glyver.

"And why so?" Demanded St. John. "I trust there is a well not far from here, in the vicinity, perhaps?" He was used to having a source of water at hand, only a few yards from home, in his former parish, and so he thought that it would not be very different here.

"Oh, no, my dear sir. Your wife will need to go all the way to Ferndean, which is the country house of the proprietor of this domain, for the nearest well is located there; that is about half an hour from here, on foot. Darkness, as you can see, is already falling, so the poor girl would surely get lost on these unknown grounds." It was kind of the old reverend to show such concern for my person. "But tomorrow morning, in broad daylight, she won't have any problem to find her path to the manor, as there is a fairly well indicated road that one may take."

"Very well then. I see the logic behind your arguments. Shall we proceed, all the same?" And with this phrase from St. John, both men took themselves to the library, that manly refuge against indiscreet female ears, to talk of important things.

So my predictions were confirmed: we would be living not far from Ferndean, my master's propriety. And then the good parson had said that our landlord had not _wished_ to come personally to see us, which meant that he could have done so, had he felt the impulse. Was that an indication that _he _was home, and not lost in the pleasure of visiting more congenial places?

However, I was aghast to know how I would be forced to go every day to his residence in order to collect water, which was a purely womanly task, as old as the Bible itself, a chore which my husband would never accept to undertake; if I was to do this trajectory on a daily basis, it would not be very long before Mr. Rochester and I met again.

I felt trapped, as if caged in a threatening place; it was no use to let rebellion pour out of me, to feel vindictive towards Heaven and Destiny for bringing me to the point of depart again. Everything I had done, every tear escaped from or retained in my soul, every mortal wound my heart had received...all of it had been senseless, worthless, useless. I had run away from temptation, I had stopped my progress on the route of perdition; furthermore, I had forsaken the being I loved with all the strength of my immortal soul, will all the passion of my mortal flesh, and all for nothing, all for an inhospitable abyss of vacuity. I had gained naught, but I had given my life away. And I knew I had hurt him, for I had dealt him a treacherous blow.

I retired myself to the bedchamber I had been assigned. It was not late, but the trip had taken its toll on my constitution, and so it was not hard to find a dreamless sleep on that first night at the rectory of Evenwood. Not faraway from me, across the moors, my beloved must have also been resting under the same starry, rural sky.

The day had already begun its race towards noon when I woke up. Pure, warm rays of light filtered through the curtains protecting my window; it was a gloriously beautiful day. After getting dressed I went to the kitchen, where I found my husband.

"I gather that you have been greatly tired by our voyage, Jane. It is almost ten o'clock in the morning" His quizzical eye held a reproving glaze. I did my best to ignore the masked reproach, and proceeded to cut a couple of tranches from the ham given to us the day before.

"As you know, there is no way to prepare tea, nor to wash ourselves. You must go at once to get at least one bucket of water."

"If you allow me, John, I would like to eat a bit, before being subjected to such a physical task." I said, as I was buttering the bread, before assembling it with the exquisite ham.

"If you wish" was his curt answer. He did not see with a good eye my delectation brought about by this fine repast.

"I shall be in the chapel; I will be grateful if you let me know when you have come back with the water...I am in urgent need of washing" He added, almost to himself.

Outside, green was the dominating color surrounding me. I had already left the quiet graves behind me, when I found the pathway Reverend Glyver had mentioned; there were almost no trees on the side of the road, thus the sun sent his merciless light directly, making me sweat after only a few minutes walking. I came to the conclusion that, if someone came my way, on horse or on foot, there was no secluded, obscured place where I could hide myself, and so I begged God that none of the former occupants of Thornfield happened upon me on this hot day.

After what must have been a quarter of an hour of march, I was still unable to see any great manor or country house. Suddenly, I saw someone approaching from a distance. My blood began thumping loudly on my temples, and my heart started racing as if someone was persecuting it; I hoped it would be a villager, someone who would pass by me without knowing me.

I took in the feminine form of the figure coming; there was a child as well. I was saved once more, for it was not what I had feared. The woman neared more and more, and I saw that she was accompanied by a small boy. Perhaps it would be useful to question her of the whereabouts of my landlord's mansion.

When she was close enough, I voiced a greeting. "Good morning."

She came to a halt, suspiciously staring at me, the skinny child half hiding behind her. A moment later, she finally talked. "Mornin'...Ye are not from 'ere." She stated the obvious, for in such small communities every person knows its neighbor.

"No, I am not. Would you happen to know where Ferndean is situated? I wonder if I took the wrong direction; you see, I am going there to gather some water" I told her, showing her my wooden bucket.

"Nay, ye are on the good direction." Her guarded manner had subsided a bit. "But ye must cross the wee hill over there, and ye'll find it then. 'Tis a grand house, ye shan't miss it. And the well is just on its side."

I thanked her for her valuable information and did as she had indicated. Not long afterwards I was before a massive, unprepossessing hall, far different from the historically worthy Thornfield. It was Ferndean. I caught myself hoping to get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester, endeavoring to place the window which would belong to his library, attempting to determine if he was still in bed, or taking a stroll with his dog.

But I could not bask on the luxury of those thoughts, for I should abandon this place very quickly if I disliked the idea of being seen by the dwellers of the mansion. As I had been told, the well was not far; I went to it, and dutifully filled my bucket. Then I retraced my steps, never looking back to the enormous house, fearing my desire to see its inhabitant. The walk to the presbytery was uneventful.

That night, after we had taken a very simple supper, St. John asked to talk to me. I had not the smallest inkling of what he was to tell me, I did not suspect the effect his important words would have on me. As I came into the library, which was quite small, I was instantly beckoned to be seated. On such a warm evening there was no necessity of a fire, and the window was open, letting the perfumed air of spring nights come to our nostrils. I installed myself on a comfortable chair near the entrance, waiting for John to talk.

"Jane, I desired to let you know that we have been invited to Ferndean." He seemed to be indifferent to this invitation, but I was far from being indifferent. "I know you abhor social events as much as I do, but I firmly believe that this call from the squire might turn to be advantageous for us." He produced a sheet of parchment from his waistcoat pocket. "Mr. Rochester, that is our landlord's name, but I think I had already convey it to you, will be receiving us after tomorrow's evening. I inform you in advance so you can prepare yourself, for I shall ask you to come with me."

The tempest I had been trying to run from, was finally upon me, its fist battering my frail hopes with hating violence. I could not evade the fatality anymore; my God had chosen to retire His mercy from my unworthy person, He had seen fit to torture me with the impossibility of my unattainable love until the end.

I stood from my seat and walked to the window, turning my back on St. John. "But surely, John, you should go by yourself; of what use could I be to you?" My voice did not quiver, and of that I was glad, for it would be impossible for my husband to learn of my unquiet mind.

"That, I shall not; it would be most discourteous, since our host has extended the summons to my wife as well." His clear, calm voice did not raise above its normal tones, but somehow St. John was able to impregnate his speech with a subtle command.

"But I have no wish to attend an invitation from a man who has a very disreputable reputation. I trust you have not forgotten what you told me of this Mr. Rochester before we came here..." In order to avoid this calamitous supper, I did not mind to mask my real concerns, playing the part of a prudish, gullible young woman.

"Yes, it is true that his villagers seem to have a questionable opinion of him, but that gives us a heavier reason to pay a visit to him, for he is in greater need of the Lord's salvation that a pious Christian. It is decided, you and I are going to this rendezvous. There are things I must discus with him. You know, I was thinking of asking his permission and his aid, for he is a man of means, to open a school for poor girls, with you as their teacher...There, surely you cannot help but see the importance of your attendance to this convocation, Jane?"

There was no argument powerful enough to make him change his mind; besides, if I kept refusing to go, I was sure to arouse his suspicions, he would understand something was amiss.

"Very well", I said. "I shall do as you ask me to." I closed the window, forbidding the alluring smells from the outside to enter, for everything appeared to be poisonous to my senses. Life was hard indeed, there was no rest, no security; there was only pain and agony.

"By the by, I will be absent tomorrow. I am to come with Reverend Glyver to Congleton, for there will be an assembly of ministers of this region. I shall come home at a late hour." I was in the habit of spending long days by myself, and so this solitude would not bother me.

"I wish you a safe journey, St. John." My voice was flat, I could not muster enough strength to say another thing.

"I thank you. But you should take yourself to bed, Jane. You are paler than usual, and the shadows under your eyes speak of a malady. You do not feel well?

"I assure you all is well, but I shall heed your advice, for it is certain that I am in need of rest." I bid him goodnight, and retired myself for the night, an unlikely idea of deliverance developing in my mind.

* * *

When I woke up very early the next morning, my husband, true to his word, was already gone. There was a slight chance that my stratagem would work. After having fetched the water, and cleansed myself for the day, I left the cottage in the direction of Great Budworth, the village which could be seen from Evenwood parish.

Could it be that you are curious to know about my plan, attentive reader? It was facile enough. I needed to talk to Mrs. Fairfax, my master's housekeeper, who was sure to be part of his household even if they had changed of residence. Since I could no longer avoid an imminent meeting with Mr. Rochester, the only seemingly possibility of salvation was to explain to the good lady my present situation, so that she could report to her employer that the cleric's wife he was expecting to see was no other than Jane Eyre, now married to an idealistic parson.

I had already redacted a brief note, summoning the widow to Evenwood parish, so we could discuss in all tranquility, knowing that John would not come until night. The missive had been written in the following terms:

_Dear Mrs. Fairfax,_

_I am back. I have crucial things to communicate to you. Would you be as kind as to meet me before the cemetery of Evenwood Parish, at three o'clock this afternoon? Please come unaccompanied; do not alert your master of my presence._

_Sincerely yours,_

_J. Eyre._

Great Budworth was but a pleasant walk away from the presbytery. My visit that day obeyed to the carrying out of my strategy; I could not deliver myself the letter to Mrs. Fairfax without putting myself at risk. And so I needed a messenger, an agile child who would be more than happy to accomplish such errand in exchange of a well earned penny.

The village was bursting with activity that morning, but they were all too conscious of my foreign being. A blacksmith did not hide his hard regard when I passed before his shop, saying something about me to a youth standing next to him, probably his apprentice. Women stared unblinking at my modest yet very proper and clean garments, some had cordial smiles on their lips while others displayed their hostile grimaces. There was a handful of children playing with a ball made out of rags just outside a boutique of textile goods; the youngsters were loud, and when one of them hit the door of the said store with the handmade ball, a very angered man came out of the boutique to chase the band of boys away. One of them, dressed in a large shirt, dirty breeches, and a waistcoat perforated with an infinity of holes, came my way, his vivacious pace not a bit slowed by his lack of shoes. I had found my emissary.

"What is your name, little one?" I called to him.

"Me fellows call me Will, mum" He answered, an intelligent glow in his eyes. "And I ain't no wee thing for ye to call me 'little one'." He added, cheekily.

"Fair enough, Will. Say, how would you like to earn a penny?" I had armed myself with a few coins.

"What do ye want me to do?" He understood that something was expected of him.

"I want you to deliver a message to Ferndean; do you know the place?" I asked, for it was at a considerable distance from this child's village.

"Of course, lady, I go there with me ma to get our water."

"And have you ever seen the master of that house?"

"Never, mum, but the folks says that he is as mean as the devil." I was taken aback by Will's response. Why would these villagers have such a terrifying opinion of Mr. Rochester?

"It is not very kind to expand these insulting rumors, Will." The boy shrugged, clearly unconcerned about being kind. "Anyway, I want you to go to Ferndean and ask for Mrs. Fairfax; if she is home, you must give her this envelope, do you understand?" I put the white envelope in his grubby hand.

"Yes, I got it, mum"

"What is the name of the person you will ask for?" I needed to make sure he had retained the name in his memory.

"'Tis Mrs. Fairfax."

"Yes, and you shall give it personally to her, and to none other. If she wishes to write an answer to my note, then you will bring it to me, if not you will come back, for your penny will be waiting for you." I showed him the shiny piece of copper. "Oh, and you must not tell anyone of the person who has given this letter to you; is everything clear?"

"Yes, mum!" I could see he was eager to begin his mission.

"Then go, and be as swift as you can, Will!" I doubt the running child heard this last order addressed to him.

Some time passed while I took a look at the merchandises sold in the few shops of Great Budworth. There was not a great variety of products, but the prices were affordable. After visiting some stores where ribbons and laces could be bought, I entered a small bookshop and was happily surprised to find quite a heterogeneous collection of publications, from politics to philosophy, including poetry, novels and plays from the Greek classical authors. I was so engrossed leafing a beautifully illustrated volume of Shakespeare's plays that time passed with amazing celerity; it was already noon before I knew it, so I took myself to the spot where I had told Will to find me.

After some minutes I perceived the boy heading to where I was standing. He sprinted once more and he was finally by my side.

"So, Will, did you give her the note?" I inquired, seeing that the envelope was no longer in his hand, hoping the lad had not lost it.

"Aye, mum, and she asked me to tell ye that she's comin'..."

"Well, you did excellent, Will. Here is your recompense." I put two coins on his outreached hand, enjoying the delight shown on his little face.

"Thank ye, mum!" He was ready to go join his pals again, but I gently took his arm.

"Do you usually go to school, Will? You are an bright boy, you know? You would learn so many things there." I could guess the answer I was going to be given to this question.

"'Course not, mum! 'Tis no use to go to school for the likes of us!" He disentangled from my grasp, and ran to where a crowd of boisterous boys was gathering.

* * *

At three o'clock I was at the gates of the Evenwood cemetery, seated on a bench that was on the side of the little path leading to the church. It did not give me any satisfaction to force the good lady to walk such a long distance, but it was the only place where we could see each other without being seen.

After having waited for an insignificant period of time, Mrs. Fairfax appeared at the entrance of the graveyard. I stood up, driven by the emotion of seeing this lost friend again. Her face was very much changed from the last time I had seen her, more than two years before; the widow's hair was whiter, her face looked so much older. She was inspecting my physiognomy as well, surely taking in my plain but unaltered features, or observing my childlike frame.

"But it really is you, Miss Eyre!" She took me in her embrace, a very odd proof of her attachment for me, for she was not a person to exhibit her feelings. "You are well, after all...oh, Jane! I thought something wrong had happened to you!" Warm tears were wetting her cheeks.

"Mrs. Fairfax, I am so glad to see you again!" My exclamation was full of truthful joy. But then I felt compelled to ask the question which had been distressing me for all these years. "How is he?", and after I let these words out, my voice became a choking noise, for tears kept me from talking any further.

"Oh, Miss Eyre...But you will bring life back to master Edward. He is so lost... Come quickly, you mustn't make him wait any longer! I shall tell you the rest on the way to Ferndean..." She took my wrist, as if pulling me behind her.

"No, I cannot go to him, not yet! That is why I have made you come, Mrs. Fairfax, because I need to tell you something." My voice was full of passion amidst its tearful resonances.

"What is it, child? When I first read your letter this morning I could not believe my eyes; 'Jane Eyre is back! Impossible' I told myself, and here you are..." The gracious lady was attempting to dry her tears, in an effort to regain a composed air. "However, I do remember that your little message spoke of some important things you ought to tell me. Are you in some sort of difficulty , Miss Eyre?" The good housekeeper had always been cordial to me, worrying for my wellbeing.

I was growing steadier, the dominion I held over my emotions was returning to me. "Would you care for a cup of tea, Mrs. Fairfax? I daresay this is not a very charming place to talk."

"Heavens, it is not, I agree with you. But where are we to find refreshments, my dear? I must say that I feel a tad exhausted, it would be impossible for me to continue to the village of Great Budworth..." She looked haggard indeed, and I felt an internal pang of guilt for demanding so tiring an exercise from this good natured woman.

"Do not worry," I said, gently leading her towards the house on the side of the church, my new home, "I would never ask you to go all the way to the village on foot, after such a trying walk from Ferndean, Mrs. Fairfax; we shall take our tea here..." We were now in front of the humble cottage, and I recognized a puzzled expression upon the worn out features.

"But, Miss Eyre, this is the cottage belonging to the new parson, how are you allowed to dispose of it as if you lived here?"

I was opening the door, and she was uncertain if she should follow me. "There is a multitude of things I must explain to you, pray come into the house." She finally decided to come along.

I commenced the preparations needed to produce two cups of tea; I then sat on a chair opposed to Mrs. Fairfax's, reposing my hands on the crude table.

"I...It is hard to know where to begin my story." I reflected for a few seconds, giving as much order to my thoughts as I was capable of. "Do you know that Mr. Rochester has invited the new parson, Mr. Rivers, and his wife to have supper with him tomorrow evening?"

"Yes, indeed; it was I who penned the invitation sent to Reverend Rivers; but what of it?" my friend had difficulty to see the point I was trying to make.

"Well, I...it is I who shall be accompanying St. John Rivers tomorrow...because I am his wife."

Mrs. Fairfax was so in awe, that she slowly incorporated herself from her chair, frantically searching for something to say.

"But, Miss Eyre..."

"It is not longer 'Miss Eyre'; I am now called Jane Rivers... Mrs. Rivers." I interrupted her, so ashamed of myself that my eyes were fixed on the floor.

"It cannot be, you must be talking in jest...You, married?..."

"I am perfectly serious, Mrs. Fairfax; my exact words carry the sad truth to your ears."

"Oh, goodness...the master...this will surely be the end of him...He has waited so long for you; he is convinced that, one day, you will come back to him."

Her troubled comment threatened to open once again the well of my eyes; my poor Mr. Rochester, so alone in his despair, still expecting to see me after two long years of physical detachment.

"I am sincerely sorry to cause affliction to Mr. Rochester; it has never been my intention, Mrs. Fairfax." I made the greatest of efforts to disguise my voice with a casual tone.

"So that is why you brought me here? For it is your house now? I see ...

The tea was ready; I poured two cups, but neither my guest nor I were in a frame of mind that could allow us to enjoy our beverage.

"I am now forced to ask a complicated task from you, it is a matter of utmost consequence. I need you to inform Mr. Rochester of my new...err...of the new circumstances of my life; I would not wish to shock him with my presence tomorrow night, I would loath myself if I were to administer more pain to his heart...I..." I had to abbreviate my declaration because of the silent tears which were unmercifully running away from my averted eyes.

"Good gracious, child! I cannot report so cheerless a knowledge; after the inexorable chastisement he has endured from Heaven, you are his only light in his now obscure universe; how could I ever tell him that this light has forever been snatched away from him? I cannot, forgive me...I do not desire to provoke a tragedy!" She made as if to dessert me but I supplicated her to stay a little longer by my side, as there was something I had deciphered from her remarks which set my mind aflame: _inexorable chastisement? Tragedy? _I was in need for her to explain her mystifying remarks.

"What do you mean, Mrs. Fairfax? Mr. Rochester is well, is he not?" My pulse was racing faster than ever, even though my heart had seemed to stop.

The elderly woman sat again, wringing her hands, looking away from me, lost in her memories.

"I did not wish to tell you about this until I had your word that you would come see my master, the poor man! Jane, Mr. Rochester is no longer what he used to be. He...but I shall begin the story from the very beginning, child."

I could only nod, a forbidding feeling of ruin taking possession of my body.

"You must wonder why the master ever decided to settle himself and his household in this forsaken place; you have to know that he had no other choice after what happened at Thornfield Hall. On those days, I was planning to abandon the service I had performed for so long, from the time when young master Edward was a child; if I had set my mind to leave his house, it was because I had been gravely disappointed by his shameless behavior towards you, a comportment which I cannot approve, even today; he had agreed to find a roof for me, for even if he had acted in a reckless manner, you know that he is a kind hearted man. When he realized that you had walked away from him, he became almost dangerous to approach to; I believe it was the only way he knew to let out his excruciating pain. For weeks he disregarded his well being, mounting _Mesrour_ from dawn till night, going to every town and village near Thornfield, eating very little or not at all, he would even forget to sleep; he was determined to find you. Sometimes I would pass by his bedchamber very late at night, and it would break my heart to hear him sobbing like a lost child, for even as a boy he was not one who would easily cry."

My desolated love, I hated my despicable person for subjecting him to such an agony. But I said nothing, conforming to nod from time to time, silently listening to Mrs. Fairfax account.

"One night, it must have been very late, I woke to the hysterical laugh of Mr. Rochester's wife; I must say that I was too afraid to unlock my door in order to see what diabolical tricks had brought her to the third story. A moment or so later the master knocked frantically on my door, urging me to open it. As I did so, I was met by the very flames of Hell, or so I thought at the time; master Edward hastily explained that a fire had been declared, that we were forced to leave the house; he had little Adele in his arms, her crying face hidden on his shoulder. I attempted to follow Mr. Rochester as quickly as my old legs would permit me to do, and soon we were near the front door, which was thrown open, so our savior took the little one and my old self out of the mansion, and we stood in the central enclosure; both the child and I were confounded at the terrifying spectacle, the violent red tongues of fire licking the dark sky. We were surrounded by the other servants, who were as agog as ourselves. Then I saw that George was endeavoring to retain master Edward by our side, telling him that he had already saved as much people as possible, that there was no one left in the manor, but Mr. Rochester responded that he had to go up to the attic for there was still Grace there, Grace and her charge, the author of the terrible conflagration; old George was no match for our strong master, and so we watched the man penetrate into the blazing building; I had to press Adele to myself to keep the girl from going after her beloved tutor, wildly yelling as she was for him to come back to us. Some time passed before we became aware of a ghostly figure perched on the battlements; it was Mrs. Rochester. A second figure joined her, that of Mr. Rochester; some sort of colloquy passed between them, but the unfortunate woman chose not to listen to reason, and so her falling body met a terrible end on the stones of the courtyard."

The catastrophic narrative of Mrs. Fairfax had robbed me of all warmth; in spite of the seasonal heat my hands were as cold as those of a corpse. I could only pray to my Lord that He may attenuate the terrible news my ears were sure to register.

"Mr. Rochester disappeared from our view, we were anxiously waiting for him. Suddenly the most frightening cacophony met our ears: Thornfield Hall was collapsing before our very eyes, burnt stones upon scorched wooden beams; in the midst of that devastation, the master was trapped ."

I could not keep pretending that I was not deeply moved by what she was so painfully telling me, her far off regard a sign that she was reviving that horrid night anew.

"What happened to him? Was he injured? Please tell me!"

"He was injured indeed. Some villagers came from Hay, and under the guidance of George, they all looked for him, aided by _Pilot_; it took them some time before they found him, unconscious, buried under a pillar, or so George told me. I do not...I am in no disposition to describe how wounded he was when they took him out of the debris, it is enough to say that he was badly hurt, uncontrollably bleeding, his face almost...Dr. Carter had been fetched, and the good man decreed that it would be necessary to amputate Mr. Rochester's left hand on the spot; I took Adele away, I did not wish her to behold such a scene of savagery."

My dear, dear Edward, what atrocities he had endured in my absence. I wished nothing more than to rush to his side, to kiss his painful memories away from his wounded body. I did not cry as I sat there, listening to the widow's pessimistic portrayal of what had transpired on that sepulchral night; dear reader, my heart was broken without repair and I was well beyond the point of shedding cold tears. My mind was numb with woe.

Dame Fairfax continued her narrative. "The fire subsided not long before dawn, all that was left behind where blackened ruins; Dr. Carter was still administering his help to Mr. Rochester; you see, when the master had been hit by the falling structure, he had lost his right eye, but in the aftermath of the accident the vision of his remaining eye began to fade away."

"He is now blind, then?" I asked, very quietly.

"Yes, he is. He who was such a proud man before, is now condemned to lead the life of a hermit, surrounded only by a few servants, because he sent most of the staff away; even little Adele was not allowed to stay, she is now in a boarding school. But I did not find it in my heart to leave his side, even though I had been wanting to do so before the fire; the truth is that, when I saw him in his present state, I swore to myself that I would always be there for him, since he has no one else in the world. And now you, Miss Eyre...Mrs. Rivers, you have also turned your back on him."

Her accusation was not false, and I deserved it. What had pushed me to marry a man to whom I could never give my heart? It had been foolishness, utter absurdity; now, the man I yearned for was stranded, as unaccessible to me as I was, once, to him; I had secured my suffering on Earth far from the redeeming prospect of our mutual love.

"So you should understand now, Mrs. Rivers, why I refuse to be the bearer of the news that will be, without a doubt, the fatal blow to him. I simply cannot..."

"I understand your dilemma, but I must plead with you to carry your role of messenger out, for it will be less painful for Mr. Rochester to let him know of my new life before he sees me...before I am presented again to him. If I beseech you to do so, it is because I have your master's interests at heart, it is because I want to spare him any unneeded suffering."

Our tea had grown cold. For quite a moment we remained silent, letting the time pass with its cruel swiftness. It was Mrs. Fairfax who broke our silence.

"Do you still love him?" Her weary voice asked.

What was the use of deceit? I had to be brave and to affront my occult feelings.

"More than ever. I only wish I could come to him, as the Jane Eyre of so long ago; but I could never admit it to him"

"Your reply is vehement, child; I would know it if you attempted to transform the truth."

Silent reflection envelope us again, and I thought no more words would be said.

"I will do it, Jane. I will tell him that you are back, and he will be the happiest man on this Valley of Shadows...I shall let him enjoy this feeling for a little while, for the wretched man has lived too long without feeling the comfort brought by a smile...and then I will cut his bliss short, just as you have demanded me."

The sun was already setting, covering us, poor mortals, with its pale halo. I had left my chair, and was now contemplating the peaceful sunset from the kitchen window, my back turned to her.

"I hope he will hate me, Mrs. Fairfax; I implore our Creator to turn his tender feelings to abhorrence, because I would prefer my cherished beloved to close his heart to my ignoble person, rather than to live with a lacerated soul, forever thirsty for a touch that shall never come."

"I am dubious of his capacity to hate you...But I must leave you now; it is growing late."

I saw her to the door, where she questioned me on the subject of my attendance to Ferndean the next evening, and when I assured her that I would be present, she only shook her head, not voicing her opinion.

I contemplated her retreating form until my feeble eyes were impotent to follow her any further.

I took myself to bed very early that night, closing my eyes to images that ensued from my overexcited mind, images that illustrated with preoccupying detail what I had been told of the fatality that had befallen Thornfield Hall. Nonetheless I struggled to sleep, for it would not do to lay awake in the dead of night.

I had to gather strength for the nearing trial that was to come: very soon I would be standing before to my precious master...the fated moment of reckoning was but a few hours away.


	6. Chapter 5: Thor's Raging Pain

**Disclaimer: **Jane Eyre and most of the other characters of this fictional story don't belong to me. Too bad...!

**Note: **I would like to thank Callisto Callispi, Maggie-Mags, Monica20, Muskoka Girl and Picco for their amiable and inspiring reviews! I'm very happy to know you are liking the story. Hope you'll like this chapter where Edward will finally show up! Enjoy and Review!!!!

Gracias Giorgio, por haber dejado una critica de esta historia que esta basada en un libro que no te agrada para nada! Gracias por el sacrificio!

Pash, tu es vraiment le meilleur! Et je pense que l'idee que tu m'as suggere quand tu m'as laisse ta critique (comme quoi ca serai bien de mettre un troisieme mec qui soit amoureux de Jane) est plutot interessante, et ca se trouve je l'incluirai dans l'histoire...Gros bisous et calins!!!

**Chapter Five**

The sun had curiously vanished the next morning from our forlorn lands, seeking more agreeable places to shine upon. The unrealistic beauty that had adorned the countryside since our arrival had abruptly left, leaving us poor humans to feel like orphaned children under a menacing, thundering sky.

The day passed fairly quickly, mostly because my domestic chores helped me to eradicate unwelcome thoughts, keeping at bay that disagreeable sensation of helplessness that had plagued my days of late. But when my housewifely tasks were over, I was once again accosted by nervous presentiments concerning the tribulation that lay ahead of me.

My mind was in a sad state of revolt, stimulated by the hidden and undeclared joy of seeing my Mr. Rochester again, while being tormented by the mere thought of finding _him_, he who was one with my heart, in such a deplorable vulnerability. A blind man, submerged in a world of unending night, in a kingdom where sunrises and sunsets were an almost erased depiction of an evaporated past. In such a world he was bound to receive the cruelest of blows: the fatal wound of a betrayed love; for he would be certain that my fickle heart had abandoned him, that it had freed itself from him to become attached to another man; and it would be impossible, even sinful, for me to unveil the truth of my sentiments to my doomed lover.

I wondered time and again, as the hours advanced slowly in their eternal march, if Mrs. Fairfax had told her employer of my changed life, as she had said she would. I did not doubt the word of the old lady, but the mission I had given to her was one that could not be easily accomplished, and thus I was dubious of her success. What was I to do if Mr. Rochester had not been informed of my marriage to St. John? My wretched master would be bitterly surprised to recognize my voice in the person of a married woman, and it would be nearly impossible for him to compose himself before revealing far too much of our past attachment to my unsuspecting, but perceptive, husband.

Outside, charged clouds were gathering in the sky, ominously preparing for a furious downpour. Once in my chamber, I unearthed the dress I had had made for me years ago, on the occasion of Miss Temple's marriage; the sight of the sober garment made me recall the evenings I had spent by my Edward's side, seated near him, enraptured by the marvelous pictures he used to paint for me with his soothing words, filling my unexperienced eyes with a thousand magical sights of exotic horizons he had once explored; in the two years I had been married to John I had never worn this gray dress, cut in a modest manner, but elegant to my unworldly taste, for it brought images to my mind, images of conversations held near the fire, of merry laughter, scenes of a man kissing me with all of his tender force; it was, however, the only robe I owned that could be suitable for a social call, and thus I was obliged to wear it once more.

I began to attire my unassuming self; the action was swiftly terminated, and so I commenced to arrange my chestnut colored hair, still trapped in a world of memories; _he _had often caressed my hair, confessing the strong penchant he had for passing his deft fingers through my silky tresses..._Oh. Dear Lord, take these thoughts away from me; these sensuous reminiscences of things that can never be again! _If I continued to entertain such impudent ideas I would be ill prepared to face Mr. Rochester tonight.

* * *

When St. John came home some hours later, I was ready to depart. My husband eyed me in a manner indicating his disapproval of my chosen attire.

"Jane, you have bought yourself a new gown?" I could almost hear the condemning remarks contained in this innocent question, for John was not fond of coquetry.

"No, St. John; it is an old dress I had among my daily garments, an old thing someone made for me when I was still a teacher, at Lowood." I could not restrain myself from smiling a bit, amused by the change of his expression, for he did not enjoy being wrong in his assumptions.

"Of course, you are not one of those artificial women who bury themselves under a score or so of luxurious clothes; still, I do not understand why you felt the necessity to be dressed in something different than your daily robe...Our host knows fully well that you are but the wife of a modest minister of God." St. John himself was clad in his every day clothing, a set of dark vestments that spoke of his religious dignity and vocation.

"Yes, well...You told me that an invitation from our landlord should be taken very seriously, and thus, I decided to dress myself accordingly to the importance of this visit."

"Well, it is done now, and you do not dispose of sufficient time to change yourself; but remember, Jane: vanity is a disgusting sin that can only lead you to hell."

"I shall remember your wise words, John..." I considered myself to be a simple woman, not sharing in the affection of the other members of my sex towards silks and laces, and still my husband accused me of of being _vain_; I was oddly reminded of Mr. Brocklehurst by this man to whom I was married.

"It is not as if our host would notice your immodest apparel, though...he is blind, have you not heard? Reverend Glyver told me some details about this misanthrope: he has suffered an accident of unknown origin and kind, but it is public knowledge that he has lost his sight in that disaster, so he now lives secluded within the four walls of his ancestral house and sees no one. I say, Jane, this misfortune of him must have been a Celestial castigation, for he is man who has a marked aversion towards religion, and it is only logical that God has seen fit to show him a little of His unlimited power in order to bring the man back to the good path..." I was immensely affronted by the casual tone he had adopted to speak of Mr. Rochester's mishap and pains; my cheeks were red and hot, and I yearned to tell him that the blind man of whom he spoke so carelessly was the finest gentleman I had ever met, even if circumstances had bended his good inclinations. I desired so to shout at this parson that my lonesome master had not attracted the anger of the All Mighty for, even if he had sinned, his heart had been filled by the purest of feelings: love.

But I stifled these indelicate urgings, that could alert John of my hidden longings. Instead, I feigned ignorance in the subject of Mr. Rochester's blindness, arguing that my ears were not the welcoming recipients of malicious gossip. However, my spouse's attention seemed to have shifted because he was no longer listening to my words; he had approached of the window, and was searching the skies, his handsome visage frowning at the grayness above us.

"If we wish to avoid the storm brewing outside, I suggest that we leave now; the rain will not be unleashed yet, not before a few hours" He left me for less than a minute and came back with a heavy, dark cape thrown around his shoulders. I, on the other hand, wore a little shawl, the only one I owned, that would not cover me greatly if we were trapped in the midst of a storm, but would protect me slightly from the cool wind.

I opened the door and was met by a chilly air that was rather abnormal in late spring.

"You might wish to close the door, for I am not yet ready to leave; it will be a dark night, so we will be in need of light." When a lantern had been prepared, my husband announced that we should be going.

The windy evening caused the branches of the trees surrounding us to swirl in a frantic dance of Nature, a dance of frightening beauty and inhuman intensity. The departing sun was almost covered, its dying radiance hidden by the growing darkness.

John and I took the road that led to Ferndean, both enveloped by the silence of our individual meditations.

* * *

The massive house before our eyes had not visible outline that could separate its structure from the inky sky. Ferndean was not a welcoming sight, not even to our damp selves. During our walk a steady rain had followed us, and so our habiliments were in a dramatic state, dripping and heavy, clinging to our trembling bodies. I was unsure if it would be polite to present ourselves to supper at Mr. Rochester's table with water literally pouring from our poor persons; but when I voiced my concerns to my husband, he curtly rebuked me for my conceited silliness, saying that it was not becoming for a cleric's wife to give so much importance to her lowly looks. And so, lantern in hand, he left me behind as he advanced towards the main door of the hall, his decided pace a proof of his tenacious mind; he knocked very loudly on the aging door.

I came to his side, trying by all means to obscure as much of my face as was possible with the shawl I had put over my head -seeing that John had not felt the gentlemanly need to offer me the shelter of his heavy cape- to protect me from the rain . I was afraid that, even if Mrs. Fairfax had told the lord of the house about my imminent visit, the servants would not have been informed and would be rightfully astonished of my unpredicted return. But, in spite of my attempts, my visage remained unveiled by the thin, drenched fabric, and so I lost my ludicrous hopes of hiding my features from the domestics.

The uneven sound of a fatigued step reached our ears from the other side of the immense, shut entrance; an elderly person came to our encounter, painfully opening the creaking door, an almost extinguished candle held in his infirm hands. The old man stood on one side, making a reverence as we stepped inside; he was attired in a livery that had surely seen better days, but it was now moth-eaten and discolored; when the footman approached the agonizing light to his face, I immediately recognized George, the aged servitor who had spent a lifetime in the service of the Rochester lineage. The gate was loudly closed behind us.

"May I take your cape and coat, sir?" The hunching man slowly liberated my husband from his outerwear, forming a pool with the water coming from the wet clothing. George was polite enough to keep from commenting on our pitiful appearance.

"Madam, allow me to unburden you as well." I gave him the flimsy shawl with a shaking hand, trembling not from the cold but out of fear, for I knew he had identified me; but George kept silent, his watery gaze not quite fixing me, not astonished at all to find me in the company of another man. I could only deduce that Mrs. Fairfax had prevented him of my arrival.

"Could you bear the news of our arrival to your master?" asked St. John, as he lowered the light of his lantern until it was entirely extincted.

"The master is waiting for you in the drawing room, sir. Pray follow me." His voice was weak with old age, and his step was hesitant, but follow him we did. My heart was a scared bird that wrestled to free itself, its sonorous pounding filling my chest with aching anticipation.

The corridor was poorly lit, making it almost impossible to take in the details of the high walls surrounding us; I perceived some paintings decorating the hall, but was unable, in the absence of light, to distinguish their subjects and colors. The hallway seemed unending, for none of the closed doors we passed happened to be the entrance of the drawing room. At last, after what had been an eternity to my agitated senses, we came to the last door, kept ajar, from which a pale light reached us.

George preceded us into the cheerless parlor, rising his voice with an effort, and announcing our presence with a dignified air.

"The Reverend Rivers and his wife are here to see you, sir!" St. John and I entered the room, as the servant was leaving it.

An untamed fire dominated the place; not far from the hearth a comfortable chair, lavishly cushioned, was placed, facing away from the flames; near the chair were two other such items of furniture, arranged in a semicircle with the first one. All over the salon were elegant, carved wooden tables, low and high, upon which rested tasteful miniatures, busts and sculptures. The walls were adorned with watercolors and other paintings, some of which depicted vessels and ships, while others showed foreign landscapes and lush gardens. It was an august room, but at first I was incapable of admiring the intricate ornaments propagated around me.

It was the figure of the tall man standing by the fireplace that attracted my gaze instantly. Do you need me to describe him to you, dear reader? You should know him fairly well, by now; however, I shall indulge in my need of portraying his effigy to you.

His virile features were symmetrically set on his face: a powerful and protuberant chin that showed the smallest hint of stubble and delineated his powerful jaw; a pair of lips that were firmly set in a bitter line, forgetting that, in the past, they would often dissolve in the warmest of smiles. But it was the shining eyes of yore that had been brutally changed, for their magnificent luster had disappeared; the remaining eye was stubbornly directed to the carpeted floor, avoiding any unwanted examination from praying glances. His wide front was punctuated with scars, a silent account of his heroic effort to save everyone from the fire that had destroyed Thornfield Hall; another angry, reddish mark marred a portion of the left side of his face; his visage was now like a journal upon which I could learn of his physical sufferings... His hair was cut shorter than before, in what society would surely call an 'unfashionable' way, but I found that it suited him rather well; there were some shades of gray lightly covering his temples, a reminder of the time that had passed since our last meeting. An ivory cravat was loosely tied around his neck; a white shirt covered his torso under a vest confectioned in the color of midnight; dark breeches and riding boots completed his outfit.

The only presence in a deserted room; how it tore my soul to see my beloved Edward stand so proud, and yet so exposed to the eyes of others. I could feel deep within me his humiliation at being observed in such a defenseless manner. I only hungered for the feel of his damaged skin under my fingers, for not one of his cicatrices awakened a feeling of repulsion within my bosom.

_Pilot_, Mr. Rochester's faithful and intimidating dog, had been lazily resting at his master's feet, but a moment after I had entered the parlor the animal bounced towards me, noisily greeting me, as he smelled me madly; the affectionate creature had not forgotten me during my absence.

"Quiet, _Pilot_!" my master's thunderous baritone had not been lessened by his trials; the sound of his voice made my body shiver.

The dog obeyed his stern lord, but continued to beg for a caress; I shook his furry ears under the watchful eye of St. John, who had clearly been astonished by the excited reaction from the animal.

"_Pilot? _Your dog, sir, has a most original name, and it appears that he has developed a strong penchant for my wife..." St. John's light remark did not succeed in chasing the frown that animated our landlord's front.

"Has he, now? Madam, do not mind the beast; he has the most annoying habit of greeting _strangers_ as if they were bosom friends." The inflection of his voice when he had called me 'stranger' was difficult to ignore.

"Well, Mr. and...and Mrs. Rivers", Mr. Rochester tried to avert his face, but still I caught a glimpse of the slight twitch that had contracted his jaw while addressing me by my husband's name, "be seated, if you please." Our host was constantly turning his visage from our regard, as if avoiding any observation from us.

St. John, who was suspiciously eying the fine elegance surrounding us, took a seat, and I imitated him, making a titanic effort to keep my eyes from inspecting the blind landowner. I must confess that the sudden nearness of my master affected me greatly, and I was terrified by the thought that my frantic heart and ragged breathing could betray my inner confusion before these two men.

"Now," said the master of the abode, "I shall be very much obliged if you were to tell me more of those important and pressing subjects that have brought you to my house on such a _lovely _evening." Mr. Rochester's sarcastic manner did nothing to produce the smallest feeling of sympathy within my husband's breast; indeed, St. John loathed ironic speeches, for he was a man of simple and truthful words.

"Sir, the problems that I am to disclose before you have been plaguing the wretched inhabitants of Great Budworth for a long time, or so I have been informed by my superior, the Reverend Glyver; and yet, no friendly hand has been outreached in kindness towards those poor people."

Our host, who had for some reason refused to take a seat by our side, continued to pace the parlor with an assurance that I would not have imagine from a man enveloped by darkness. I must confess that I was ashamedly lost in the contemplation of his dear person, eagerly drinking in his presence after so long an absence, after so long a time during which I could only see him through the curtain of ethereal dreams; and there he was now, as real as the harsh wind wailing over the moors. I had to reunite all of my will to hide my absurd, ecstatic bliss generated by having found the missed owner of my love again, even though he was physically scarred and emotionally broken.

"Glyver told me that you were quite the humanist, and I do believe he was not mistaken, Rivers; he irritated me for days on end, asking me to invite you to Ferndean, saying that you were a rather brilliant young parson with a head full of charitable ideas...I must say that I do not appreciate the specimens of your breed, minister of God."

"I am not here to be liked nor admired, sir, but to transmit a message for you." John's energetic voice overflowed with feverish convictions, speaking loud for those who had no voice. " I have been revolted by the poverty that reigns in the village, by the sickness and the ignorance!"

"Rivers, you are too much concerned by the lot of people you do not even know, you speak of their sort as if it were your primordial preoccupation." Mr. Rochester had turned his back to us, as if to scrutinize with his withered eyes the diaphanous landscape that hung from the wall. "And yet, you have a family...you have a wife..." He said nothing more, but I had no need to see his visage to sense his unspoken grievousness.

I could not utter a single word, so petrified was I, fearing with every passing second that this man I loved with such fierceness would reveal too much of our former connexion to St. John.

"I find it hard to comprehend your remark, sir. I would be a sad excuse of a cleric if I were to allow my wife to interfere with my evangelical mission; it is my duty to intercede for those who are oppressed"

"_Of course_." Conceded Mr. Rochester after a long pause. " But we are distancing ourselves from our initial discussion..." Our landlord was facing us once again. "You have talked of how disease strikes the villagers, but in this accursed place even the strongest of constitutions is bound to wane, let alone badly fed urchins and deteriorated old men."

"But the ignorance that dominates that place! There is no school to educate those children, who are growing up like wild animals. Your tenants need you, sir; do not turn away from them in your grief..." A note of contained consideration had changed the tone of the clergyman.

"You know nothing of my grief, man of the cloth...And I have no use for your _commiseration._" A dangerous flame traversed his sightless eye, for his brusque bearing and rising voice were the prelude of commotion; but the coldness of reason repressed the outburst after only a few moments. "But I know that you speak driven by your charity towards your fellow men, Rivers. And so you talk of a school, but there is no school master in the village..."

"Yes, Mr. Glyver told me so. My wife, however, would be more than willing to impart her knowledge upon those young souls."

"Would she, now? Is your wife a teacher?"

My face was burning, and I had an urgent need to cough, brought about by the cold vestments clinging to my chilled body and by the artificial curiosity Mr. Rochester showed on my behalf.

My spouse did not show any signs of alarm concerning my violent expectoration, and so he must have been greatly unprepared to see Mr. Rochester cross instantaneously the insignificant distance that separated him from the chair where I was sitting, finding me by the sickly sounds I had emitted, bending his tall frame a bit.

"Do you not feel well, Miss...Madam? I trust you have not caught a cold." he added, as his features were softened by his concern for my health; he had come so near to my seat that I could have reached out to touch him..._how I longed to touch him, just an innocent, meaningless caress, my Lord_...but my moral conscience came swiftly back to me, and so I had to content myself with giving a mild answer to his preoccupied interrogation.

"I am well, sir..." A discreet intake of breath shook my Edward as he clenched his right hand into a pale fist, thus reacting to the innocuous phrase pronounced by my quivering lips, spoken by this voice of mine that he had not heard for more than two years; in his reign of blackness, he must have been vastly disconcerted.

"Here, take my handkerchief...Mrs. Rivers." His hand shook somewhat as he reached out, offering me to take an embroidered piece of grayish linen from his long fingers, and as soon as I took it, he walked away from me, as if to avoid our ephemeral nearness.

A sonorous knock on the closed door forced my senses to abandon the realm of chimeras. The interruption was followed by the entry of Mrs. Fairfax; she appeared to be aghast at the incontestable soiled appearance of my clothing; then she saw my husband and her expression changed. She locked her gaze with mine, but nervously looked away after a couple of seconds.

"Sir, I wished to inform you that supper shall be served." The benign woman said.

"I thank you, Mrs. Fairfax...Would you be so kind as to escort our guests to the dining room?"

"Of course, sir." And by these words we were invited to follow the housekeeper.

But before I left the drawing room, however, I caught a fleeting glimpse of my beloved slowly caressing the chair I had been occupying, a mournful expression fixed on his face.

We walked the same long corridor we had passed before, and we were ushered into a spacious room, where an ample table was elaborately set for three. John and I took our assigned seats, on both sides of the chair reserved to our host, at the extremity of the of the dining table. Some time passed before we heard the firm step of Mr. Rochester approaching; he entered, finding his way with the assistance of a cane, and took his rightful seat without uttering a word.

It was not long before we were presented with a variety of dishes. I perceived that Mr. Rochester's aliments had been carefully cut, for he would have an arduous time if he tried to accomplish that menial task by himself. It tugged so at my heart to see him entirely dependent of others to carry out the elementary activities of his quotidian life; I only wished I could perform all those minuscule deeds for the dear man...

As the minutes dragged themselves slowly, I felt more anxious and desired only for this trying banquet to be over; besides, my indisposed stomach proscribed me from taking more than a few mouthfuls of the tasty meat and potatoes placed on my plate.

A burdensome silence had been established between my two companions and I , when my spouse decided to liberate us from the heaviness of its mute stillness. St. John rose his impassive tenor over the hushed clatter of silver forks against the delicate china.

"As I was telling you, Mr. Rochester, my wife could very well undertake the direction of a school for the little villagers; she has been a teacher for some years now, and would be more than enthusiastic to dedicate her time to the upbringing of the little ones."

"So, she has acquired an extensive experience; where has she taught, if I may ask?" questioned the lord of Ferndean, a shadow of resolute hardness transforming his face for a moment or two.

"Mrs, Rivers grew up in a religious institution called Lowood, an evangelical place where the basic concepts of Christian life were rooted into her soul and body..."

In the past, St. John and I had often discussed of the years I had spent in Lowood School, under the sadistic direction of Mr. Brocklehurst. Curiously, my husband had a difficulty to condemn the questionable methods of education imparted by that hypocritical 'man of God'; John considered that, even though the Reverend's _modus operandi_ had been rather harsh, he had, nonetheless, succeeded to cultivate the seed of morality within our impressionable minds and immortal souls; I think I do not need to specify that I did not share this outlandish belief. I was not mystified to hear my spouse talk on these terms.

"Indeed! Rivers, I have heard of this Lowood place from...from someone who had frequented it, and I must say that the account given to me of the said school could not be qualified of "evangelical." My master seemed to have lost his patience, disliking my husband's pious interpretation of Lowood; he even looked tired and lost, as if he wanted to immerse his poor self in the peaceful waters of sweet oblivion. He massaged his temples with his only hand, and added, in a restrained voice, "Please, spare me the details of this orphanage where your...where _she _grew up."

"Anyhow, after a couple of years passed in this environment, my wife became a teacher, carrying her role out for no more than two years, after what she became a governess; thus you can infer that she has gathered quite an array of empirical experiences."

"She was a governess, you say? And where was that, madam?"

It must have been his sourness that pushed him to trap me in such a callous fashion before my consort. I had no wish whatsoever to repeat the invented account I had given John of my months as a governess, but I had no choice; thus I responded, with an uncertain voice, to Mr. Rochester's interrogatory.

"It was in Ireland, sir." From the corner of my eye I witnessed John's unsatisfactoriness at being ignored from the conversation; I believe he was shocked by the rude manners of our landlord, who appeared determined to include _me_, in a woman, in the conversation, much to my dismay.

"Ireland! They say the Irish are such warm-hearted people, so I imagined you were effusively welcome in that country..." His affected buoyancy pierced my bruised feelings like a thorn; he was purposefully repeating the words he had said years ago, when he had wanted me to believe that it was necessary for me to leave his side...he had intoned those words instants before he had passionately taken me into his arms, for the first time, to show me the real meaning of a lover's kiss...

"Yes, sir, I very much enjoyed my time there." I sternly commanded my coward body to keep the first rebellious tears in place, and my determination controlled my aggrieved heart for the time being.

"And what was the name of the family that employed you?" Mr. Rochester was playing a dangerous game, seeking me out, artfully forcing me to leave the citadel I had built within my dying heart. In this dining room, although we were three people to be present, the innuendos were exchanged solely between my tormented Edward and I; it was as if he had the ability to shut the world out, to separate our two spirits from the rest of humanity, for we were confessing our faults and miseries in a secret language that could only be understood by our bonded hearts...St. John Rivers was not cognizant of the electrical currents flowing in the air.

"I used to work for Mrs. Dionysius O'Gall...sir" I was being transported by a strange sensation, losing my lucidity in a misty confusion; this emotion recalled me, very oddly, the almost hypnotic feeling I had experienced once, when I had been talking to a gypsy woman, who had happened to be Mr. Rochester in disguise...Was I becoming feverish, as a logical result of my exposure to the cold rain hours before?

"Really? I know the O'Galls, a very eminent family, indeed; old Dionysius has five daughters, if I remember well...If you continue to write to them, send them my warmest greetings, will you, madam...?"

I was mute, unable to furnish a reply. Was this a contemptuous mockery, this farce of polite conversation, where secrets threatened to be reveled? I felt like a possessed woman who neared the edge with every delirious step she gave.

My spouse continued to engage Mr. Rochester into conversation and debate for the rest of the repast, exposing his quixotic views concerning the adversity of the humble of spirit, to which the secular man would respond with his usual sarcasm.

My clothing was uncomfortably clammy, and my chilled body begged for a comforting fire and a placid sleep; a disturbing cough would sometimes seize me, bringing the surrounding conversation to a halt, and arousing considerate, but impersonal, utterances that our sightless host would direct to me. As for my religious husband, of course, he did not expressed nor showed the smallest discomposure by his equally dank garments.

During supper, I was painfully aware that when my master deigned to turn his face to me, he would harbor an almost hostile expression on his hard features, as if annoyed to be coerced to exchange some words with me. Furthermore, when he did address me, his tone would shift between irony and an almost stony civility; had he excavated an abyss of indifference between us?

Yes, I know that, during my blackest hours, I had hoped to be spared from his society, but those hopes had inhabited my mind before coming to Ferndean ; however, now that I had been allowed to taste the damning sweetness of my earthly paradise once more, I longed only to continue to bask in its pleasure...what I mean is that I, against my better judgment, desired for things to be the way they were years ago, when I was the obscure governess at Thornfield...Yes, I desired for him to mysteriously arouse my curiosity as I playfully provoked his ire; I wished to be called a score of different names taken from the pages of childhood fairy tales; I yearned to entice a smile to take possession of his lips, as his serious badinage would lighten my days...I think I ached for us to be friends, I wanted the joy of pure friendship to bless some of our hours. And yet my dearest had erected an impenetrable wall around his core, or so it appeared. _But, Jane Eyre, egoistic little woman, why would this rueful man aspire to renovate the invisible thread he had once attached to your cruel heart? You were the one who left him in the midst of his desperation, you were the culprit who stabbed his unsuspecting back, allowing him to bleed in solitude for there was no one to tend to his lacerations, and by marrying another you have accomplished the greatest of treasons; this man, whose face is now turned from you because he has been trying to forget your despicable heartlessness, is now wary of you, Jane Eyre...so you might as well leave him alone! _

But, at the same time, he had acted so solicitous towards me only moments ago, handing me his handkerchief, I had even seen him passing his hand so softly over the chair where I had been seating; was it possible that my perturbed eyes were seeing visions of fantasy, and that my fragile mind was interpreting things in a peculiar manner, believing to find harbors of solace where there were solely lorn deserts?

The hour was growing late, and yet the storm outside did not abate; Thor's hammer banged the earth around us with a fearful regularity, and the downpour sang a melancholic serenade of woe and loss. I did not cherished the thought of regaining Evenwood Rectory under the battle that was devastating the skies, but, as the meek wife of a rural clergyman, I could not aspire to be taken by a carriage that would protect me from such _trivial_ cataclysms, as my husband would certainly call them.

I was thus engaged in my reflexions when Mr. Rochester announced, as if he had read my musings: "I trust you have ordered your coach to come to Ferndean to collect you, Rivers. This damnable rain will not be over before dawn. And _she _seems to have contracted a bitter cough."

"I do not dispose of a carriage, sir; we have come here on foot, and we shall return to the Rectory by the same means; it won't be pleasurable but we do not have an alternative." was the serene response of St. John.

The lineaments on the landowner's visage suddenly held an expression of dark accusation, enforced by the imputation of his following allegations. "You walked for half an hour on such deplorable a night, Rivers...dragging your..._this _frail girl along? It is no wonder the poor chit has kept on coughing her soul away. Can you not see, man, that her health is not a bagatelle to trifle with, and that these insalubrious moors will quickly dwindle her complexion?"

I shall concede that my master's protective words lifted my spirits -a foolish emotion for someone in my position-, but I could not help to feel my breast swell at the sound of those declarations so fiercely stated; if Mr. Rochester could feel the smallest of concerns for me, then...well, then everything was all right, for that meant that he did not detested me. _But only yesterday you had affirmed before Mrs. Fairfax that you wanted this man to hate you; you are a fool, Jane Eyre, your fickle senses will be the loss of you! _

"Mr. Rochester, I see fairly well everything that concerns my wife, and I know where the limits of her endurance lay. It is her lot, as well as mine, to travel this Earth with the Word of God on her lips, disregarding her mortal embodiment in order to exalt her eternal soul; so do not be so concerned with such fervor about her sort, sir." St. John had exclaimed this sentences without ever abandoning his reposed and virtuous demeanor, and yet his pale, incisive eyes brandished the sword of disdain openly, a sentiment that was not perceived by our sightless host.

"You are wrong to presume that her sort would bear any especial importance to me, Rivers." Explained John's interlocutor, assuming a haughty air. "I pity her, as I would pity any other villager, particularly since I know that there is no physician in Great Budworth, and so, if the young lady had a malaise...well it would turn out to be most unfortunate for her" And by this simple and aloof announcement I clearly understood that my precious Edward had smothered the affections he might have once experienced for me. _I told you, you are a fool, Jane Eyre; you see, he does no longer care for your petty, perfidious person_...I would have to learn to yield to hopelessness, for I was well beyond the point where I could let myself fill my heart with fancy dreams of things that would never come.

My eyes were slowly filling with moist pearls that threatened to slide down my pale, cold cheeks; I was only too thankful for the poor illumination of the room that would allow me to ensconce my despondency from my perceptive husband. In an attempt to disguise my pain, I gave Mr. Rochester an answer to his words. "I thank you for your pity, kind sir, but I fear you might be misplacing it, for I have the privilege of possessing a wholeness of body..." It was only once I had uttered this incautious, brief discourse, that I realized that it could be taken for a derisive remark meant for the blind master of the house. My husband sent me an admonishing glance, silently reprimanding me for my coarseness, a censorious mien encompassing his seraphic, fair looks. I instantly tried to rectify what I had said, a mortified note upsetting my voice. "Oh, sir, I did not..."

"But of course, _madam_, you are correct." His sarcastic baritone acknowledged, filled with scorn. "It is I who should be the beneficiary of the pity I mentioned, for I am no more than an useless, disfigured cripple, am I not? It is you who pity _me _as if I were a dying dog..." The flustered man became silent, as if sternly pulling the reins of his character to refrain his tartness from running too freely. A frown was drawn on his capacious front, and the muscles of his thundering jaw were bitterly set; his beloved face betrayed only to well the anguish he felt. I had not wanted to insult my only truelove, and yet his damaged heart had been stricken to the very core.

"It is of no consequence, _Mrs. _Rivers." Pursued our offended landlord, abandoning somewhat his belligerent tone.

"I beg you to excuse my wife, sir." Intervened St. John, as his regretful voice indicated the truth of his apologies. "She is a rather shy person, and it is not used to appear in society, hence her lack of manners." I found my husband's explanation to be exceedingly infuriating, but chose to remain silent, for I did not wish to aggravate the situation.

There was no rejoinder from Mr. Rochester, and after some moments of silence, the squire finally talked.

"I have no coach to put at your disposal, so I propose you to stay at Ferndean, for the night..._if _you do not see any inconvenient in accepting this invitation from the part of a confirmed heretic, that is. What do you say, young parson?"

Oh, Dear Lord! Will You ever have some mercy on me? To spend the night sharing the same roof with Mr. Rochester was a thing that would be difficult to bear, knowing that he would be so near to me and yet so, so far...

"I am not frightened by your self-proclaimed paganism, sir, but I would not wish to impose ourselves and to stretch the boundaries of your benevolence." Was the polite reply of my religious consort.

"It is not out of kindness that I suggest this to you, nor out of friendship for I barely know you, Rivers. It is by taking my own interests at heart that I recommend this arrangement, for if you were to contract pneumonia and die, I would be very much peeved, as there would surely be another delegation of villagers invading my estate, frantically requesting to provide them with another parson...and then I would have to go to Hell again to fetch another such specimen. "

St. John's hard stare deepened, as if disliking the manner in which Mr. Rochester talked about the clergy. I, on the contrary, had found his remark rather amusing, and would have laughed...yes, I would have laughed if I were again by _his_ side, if things were like they had been years ago...he had always made me laugh with his ingeniousness, even his irony.

"Because you state so clearly your real motivations, then I would be _honored _to accept your hospitality, Mr. Rochester." The religious man's icy eyes denoted the contrary of what he had said. "It is true that it would be sheer insanity to go out under such diluvial rain."

"It is settled, then." The proprietor took a silver bell that was placed on the table, not far from his right and only hand, and rang it. Some time passed before the housekeeper entered the dinning room.

"Did you call me, sir?" asked the old woman, clad in a sober black gown.

"Mrs. Fairfax, I need you to prepare a bedchamber for..." Mr. Rochester did not have the time to finish his request, for my spouse interrupted him.

"Excuse me, sir, but would it be much trouble to prepare two chambers instead, one for my wife and the other for myself?" Mrs. Fairfax eyed me knowingly, measuring my reaction to John's petition; I averted my blushing features from her. I felt humiliated by the fact that John had chosen to disclose before other people things that concerned the physical part of our marriage.

"Yes, certainly. Please, prepare two chambers for our guests, Mrs. Fairfax, and be sure to light a hearty fire, for the parson's wife" my loved one's words were detached when referring to me. "has a violent cough." As soon as her master had conveyed his orders to her, the elderly dame left us.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I shall retire for the night." Said Mr. Rochester, as he incorporated himself from his chair, retrieving his walking-stick, and, without wishing us a good night, Ferndean's reclusive master disappeared into the shadows of the interminable corridor, leaving us to our own devices.


	7. Chapter 6: Midnight Reveries

**Disclaimer: **Jane Eyre doesn't belong to me. I wish it did!

**Note: **I know it's been a while since the last time I updated, but the thing is that I had been sick with a very mean cold, and when I got well I didn't feel as inspired as before...But tonight I was determined to finish this chapter. Hope you like it!

Anyway, I'd like to thank you all for your cool reviews! Hyio, MissPrez79, Muskoka Girl, GreysAddict21, Picco I really appreciate your feedback!!!

**Chapter Six**

The chamber I had been assigned held no resemblance with the luxurious parlor of the manor. The walls were bare, lacking all the pretentious signs of wealth that had adorned the drawing-room. A pale light irradiated from a candle placed on a little table that was disposed on the side of the immense four-poster bed; the weak luminous rays could not keep at bay the darkness that invaded the bedchamber.

A mild fire warmed the hearth, but it was by no means the refulgent fire Mr. Rochester had asked for, and its flame gave a reddish glow to the obsolete chair that stood in front of the chimney. The place smelled of dust, making me conjecture that the room had been closed for a long time; I could only imagine that guests did not come very often to Ferndean.

This depressing, moldy atmosphere did nothing to calm the cough that shook my frame with its violent force, and so I sat for some moments before the languorous blaze, trying to warm my frozen hands, my absent mind filled with the images I had witnessed during the last, eventful hours.

At one moment I was shivering so that I felt the need of a warm cup of tea to appease my body. I decided that such beverage would be easily found in the kitchen, although I was uncertain as to whether the kitchen could be found as easily, for the antique house appeared to be a veritable labyrinth of obscure corridors. I could very well go in search of Mrs. Fairfax, but I did not desire to trouble her rest, for the hour was late.

Thus, with the shimmering candle in my hand, I left my room behind, as I ventured into the unknown hallways of the somber manor.

The parquet echoed my steps, creaking under my feet; the lack of light gave a foreboding sensation of eeriness, as if the house had concealed tragic secrets across the years. My almost childish imagination began to evocate the fears of my youth, recalling the stories Bessie used to tell my cousins, while I hid close enough to listen to her anecdotes as well; the maid often spoke of incorporeal beings that meandered our world in an useless effort to get revenge.

My mind was still impregnated with these superstitious thoughts, when a feeble luminosity was sighted, not far from where my steps had been leading me. The faint source of light was coming from a door that was almost shut, but not completely, letting the liquid light escape from the room.

Before I could prevent it, my legs were carrying me towards that door, as silently as they could. Luck was on my side, and so I reached the threshold without causing any noise; and what I saw there made catch my breath.

It was a library, beautifully furnished, with the same magnificence I had witnessed in the drawing-room. Unending rows of books covered the high walls, while a intricately carved desk, buried under a disarray of papers, graced the farthest corner of the resplendent room; I could make its details, for the fire that lit the chimney sent its impetuous scarlet and yellowish shades to the fine working table.

In the center of the library was situated a settee, covered with golden patterns that exalted its gracefulness; upon this upholstered seat rested the lord of Ferndean, as alone as a lost man on a desert island. His dear face spoke of melancholy and solitude under the reflect of the mocking flames coming from the hearth.

I do not know how long I stood there, not daring to cross that threshold and yet unwilling to distance myself from the door of the silent library. I was as still as the salt statues from Biblical times, secretly beholding the fallen idol that had set my heart aflame in what appeared to have been another life, another world. A few hours ago, as we were having supper, I had rarely permitted myself to glance at Mr. Rochester, fearing the scrutiny from the shrewd eyes of my husband, knowing that he would read my expression as easily as if it were an open book, and then my secret longings would be unveiled. But now, dear reader, far from St. John's prying eyes, submerged as I was into an abyss of clement shadows and weak light, I could finally free my rebellious gaze, I could at last allow it to gently caress my master's visage and form. I was like a starved woman who could not remember when was the last time she had appeased her hunger and thirst; I had found the well that could quiet my feverish senses.

"You examine me, Mrs. Rivers; do you think me handsome?", asked Mr. Rochester, suddenly turning his face towards the entrance of the library, towards the very spot where I had been for the past minutes. I was rooted by fear, holding the dying candle in my trembling hand. Was he endowed with a preternatural capacity that the rest of us, poor mortals, lacked? I had been as soundless as a shadow, and yet he had divined my intrusive presence. Perhaps if I did not answer to his voice he would convince himself that there was no one standing near the door, and then I would be able to slip away; but good fortune is a fickle thing that will abandon us when we are in desperate need of its aid, and so it was written on the book of Destiny that, as I was endeavoring to be as silent as possible, my betraying body would denounce me with a raucous cough; my hand flew immediately to my mouth, in a attempt to hush the sound, but it was too late. I had been openly exposed.

"And so it is you; my ears have not deceived me, they have justly recognized your elfish step..." Continued the indomitable voice, a _soupçon_ of sarcasm barely discernible in its tones.

"Sir..." I did not like the trembling word that escaped from my throat, but it seemed as though I was incapable of speaking normally.

"Oh, but do not bother to answer my foolish question, madam; I already know your response." The bitterness that tainted my Edward's statement tortured even more my bruised love for him. "Why do you wander this accursed place at such a late hour? Or have you come here to haunt me, revengeful witch that you are?" Despite my distress, a cheerless smile took hold of my lips, caused by Mr. Rochester's use of his playful epithet of yore.

"Sir, I got lost." I had regained a bit of control over my person, and so I allowed myself to give him this short explanation.

"Indeed. And you found your way to my sanctuary instead. What for, pray say. To seek a maimed man out, perhaps? You have been observing me for quite a moment, miss...madam; I hope my marred face and ungraceful figure have provided you with a little amusement, but the spectacle is over now, and you should go to bed." And as he finished this last words he turned his attention to the fire, his sightless eye almost enraptured by the exotic dance of the fire, a dance that was inexistent to him.

I know that decency dictated for me to go back to my bedchamber, but convention and social rules could not force me to desert my dear love without exchanging a few words with him, and so I stayed. It pained me to hear him talk in such a self-consciously manner of his physical scars, but his anguished remarks spoke only too clearly of deeper spiritual cicatrices, of injuries that I had inflicted on him years ago.

"Sir, I...Please, allow me to explain, for there are..." But my phrase was not to be ended, for it died away when he brusquely interrupted me.

"There is nothing to explain...Jane." He pronounced my name in such a hushed voice that I barely heard him, or maybe I only imagined he had called me by my name, as he used to do years ago, before the end of our life together.

How could he not see through the charade that was my marriage to St. John? How could he believe that my love for him had withered, that I was capable of loving a cold cleric? And yet, his hurt demeanor indicated how far from the truth he was. Did he think, in all earnest, that his blindness would disgust me, that his absent hand and eye would make me thank my Creator for my fair husband? I needed to cry out, to confess to him how repentant I was, to tell him how I regretted having committed such a treason towards him, my beloved; I ardently desired to speak of how tired I was of the daily farce I played with John; yes, I felt the urge to open the locked gates of my imprisoned heart so that I could finally convince him of how precious he was to me. But my body was gelid and exhausted that night, and although my passion was unleashed, it was only within my mind, and such midnight confessions would surely never happen.

I coughed again. The storm that had been growing on Mr. Rochester's forehead seemed to dissolve itself as a preoccupied mien possessed his features.

"Do come in, you stubborn young creature; I would not enjoy being held responsible for your untimely death." He tried to mask his concern under the guise of detached words, but I knew that he was seriously worried by my malady. "Here, come sit near the fire." He stood up, vacating the settee and going to where a tall narrow table stood, upon which were arranged some bottles and goblets. Mr. Rochester moved as if his sight had not left him, showing the absolute knowledge he had of his quarters, but his hand hesitated a bit while he carefully followed the forms of the decanters, presumably looking for the right one. He then proceeded to pour the drink into a crystal goblet.

"You should drink this; it should keep you warm for a while." He put the chalice between my hands, and the contact of his fingers upon my skin was like a blissful breeze upon an arid land.

"Thank you, sir."

We remained silent for an extended lapse of time, enveloped by a quietness that was thick with unsaid words. I was grateful when the master of the house broke the heavy atmosphere.

"You have been married for some time now, I gather. How long, if I may know?" Mr. Rochester's voice concealed perfectly well any feeling or emotion he might have experienced at the moment.

"It has been more than a year, sir."

"I see." It was odd to hear him use this expression when it was clear that he could not see at all. "And where did you meet this Rivers fellow?"

"He...St. John saved my life, sir." I was uncomfortable, I did not desire to speak of my spouse, for I knew that every word I would say of him would be like a knife going deeper into my Edward's heart, but my mind was too numb to lie or to avoid his questions.

"How so?" He had turned his back to me and was slowly pacing the length of the opposing wall, as if not wanting me to behold his visage or the raw emotions that it could eventually show.

"When I left you..." I had meant to say _When I left Thornfield_, but my voice had disobeyed my will, again. "I had nothing of value, so I wandered the moors like a strayed animal; I slept under the stars at night, and walked under the grayish sky by day, eating the few berries I would find here and there, and drinking only when I would find a little creek, which was not often.

"You could have been spared these trials if only you..." but it was my turn to interrupt him, my cheeks were burning because of what my interlocutor appeared to be suggesting.

"Mr. Rochester, you know fully well that I could not consent to stay, that my conscience forbade me to open my ears and my soul to your demands."

"Yes, I was fully aware of your unbreakable code of morality." With an abrupt movement he was finally facing me, a savage expression intensifying his virile features, a vestige of the Edward of old days still clinging to him; my poor master was now a caged eagle, but his royal demeanor and haughty, passionate spirit had not deserted him, and for that I was grateful. "And yet, I would never have forced you to become less than what your unbendable nature dictates you to be, for it is your rebellious, independent heart that I lo...that I sought. I never intended for you to run away in such an unprotected fashion; I was mad with affliction when I realized that you had left for good, and I despised myself with all the hatred my heart could produce for pushing you to walk this Earth without a friendly hand to help you in your hour of need; if only you had come to me, I would have secured a comfortable existence for you, before disappearing from your life, as you undoubtedly wished me to." When his impetuous speech had been painfully delivered he averted once more his scarred face. "But we should not speak of those days from our past, _madam_." This last word was said in a sarcastic voice. "What happened next?"

"After a few days my body was in sickly state of exhaustion. I remember that I was lying on the hard, wet soil, as unmoving as if Death itself had already claimed me; it was then that he found me, as he was coming home from a pastoral visit. St. John nursed me back to health, with the assistance of his sisters; when I told him, some time later, that I had no house nor family to come back to, he provided me with a position as teacher and assigned me a small house."

"He is a philanthropic sort of man, then, this St. John of _yours._" His voice was again tainted with an edge of contemptuous mockery, but after a few moments spent in silence Mr. Rochester deserted his ironic behavior and spoke with a truer voice. "I must say that I am glad to hear that you had someone to watch over you, that you were not entirely on your own." Conceded my master, rather reluctantly. "I suppose you were...you _are _very grateful for all his, um, good deeds?" I felt the dear man was struggling not to demonstrate his open dislike for my husband.

"Yes, sir, I _was _most grateful."

"You _were_? But what about now? Has all your gratitude vanished?"

"No, but now...well, things are different now, sir; he is my husband."

"And do you love him?" I was not prepared for his sudden question. I could not lie to him, but to tell him the truth would be impossible.

"You should not ask me such things, Mr. Rochester."

"Yes...yes, you are right, and I beg your pardon."

"But tell me how you are faring, sir." I instantly bit my foolish tongue, and felt ashamed of the thoughtless question I had voiced.

A mirthless laugh invaded the library, and Mr. Rochester came to stand in front of the settee where I had taken place.

"Look at me," he said, in a whisper filled with quiet desolation, "as you can witness, I am in a perfect shape!"

"Sir, but you are the same man I knew years ago, beneath those layers of scars you have not changed, and your proud strength has not left you..."

"Ha! My strength, what a pitiful little word! You are wrong, I am no longer the same." For a moment he appeared to be lost in his thoughts, but it was not long before he addressed me again. "May I sit beside you, or would my cumbersome person bother you?"

"Sir, I should go back to the bedchamber..."

"No; stay, if you please, if only for a few minutes...Do not go, not yet...Jane." And saying this he took a place near me. I was very still, not daring to move, fearing that the smallest movement might bring me closer to him, and we were so close already.

"Are your vestments wet?" The settee was not very broad, and so Mr. Rochester's arm had been brushing my shoulder now and then; it was only normal that, sooner or later, he would realize that my gown was still drenched.

"Um, yes, sir. The rain was harsh upon us, as we were making our way to Ferndean; but my clothing will dry before long." I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"The Devil take that idiotic preacher!" His heartfelt profanity did not astonish me, for I knew he could be a very expressive man. My host retrieved an elegant plaid that had been adorning the back of our seat, and managed to put it around my shoulders with his only hand. The fabric was warm against my back."Does that thoughtless man mean to kill you? Has he the smallest of considerations towards _his _wife? He does not seem to be very interested in your wellbeing...It is no wonder you have been coughing in such a violent manner since you entered this house."

"I insisted to come along, sir; it was not St. John's fault." I lied.

We sat together for some time, enraptured by the secret machinations of our minds and souls. It was bizarre to be seated next to him, to see how the ghostly image that had inhabited my dreams for so long became a real man once more. But our contemplation was not eternal, and it was my companion who ended it.

"Jane...I am sorry to call you by your name, and you must recoil from me every time I take this liberty, but you must understand that you will always be Jane in my mind," he then touched the left side of his chest, "and Janet in my heart. I find it impossible, almost unbearable to call you _Mrs. Rivers_, although I have done it for the sake of appearances when in the company of...of Rivers, and to address you as Miss Eyre would be an equally absurd farce. So, would you allow this old friend of yours to call Jane?"

"Sir, you have said it yourself: you are my dearest friend..." I could not allow my feelings to pour more words.

"Well, that is settled then. Say, Jane, you told me, in a poor effort to console the poor fool I am, that I have not changed, physically changed I mean, and yet I have, of that I am sure, and my body and face prove my words...but, you know, I was wondering if you had changed?"

I was a little puzzled by this odd question. Had I changed? I had no answer to give. Every time a mirror caught my unassuming image, I would not fail to see a very simple, plain young woman, clad in plainer clothes.

"I do not know, Mr. Rochester, I believe I am as plain as ever, unimportant and little..."

"The very image of elfish beauty," he said, a boyish smile tugging at his lips. I blushed and my visage became warm under his adulation.

"You are talking nonsense, sir!"

"Not at all. May I run my fingers over your features? My fingers are my eyes nowadays, Jane."

The mere idea of his deft fingers traveling on my face made me dizzy. And yet he was right, my blind interlocutor had no other means of seeing the world and the persons around him, so I could not refuse his innocuous petition. But I had hesitated to answer his plea, and so Mr. Rochester, with his customary acuteness, understood my doubts.

"I won't touch you. I only want to _see_ you once more, Jane."

I did not respond to him, but instead took his only hand in mine, and guided it towards my face.

"There, sir. But I am afraid you will be a tad disappointed when your hand will paint my likeness in your head." My lips were quivering with emotion, so I pressed them together, not wishing for him to notice my confusion.

"Never!" His sensitive fingers began to explore every detail of my face, every imperfection, every line, every angle. "Your skin is as sweet as ever, the soft skin of an angel. Your eyes must be as bright as they were before, full of youth. But..." and here he frowned, a shadow obscuring his unseeing eye, " are you not a bit thinner than before? Your face tells me so..."

"Oh, perhaps, but it is nothing serious, sir." I turned my face away from him, escaping his hand, not wanting him to find out how trying these last years had been to my weak constitution."So, do you find me much changed?"

"No, you are the same Jane my soul remembers: childish, slender, delicate."

"Unassuming, as I have already said, sir." He only chuckled at my provocation, and his low laugh took me back through the years, took me back to when we were friends, back to dark nights passed by the fire as we teased each other, those delightful hours spent before Fate broke our intertwined destinies.

Was it possible that in spite of our mutual heartache we could continue to share a friendship? I was beginning to wonder.

"Mr. Rochester, are you aware that there is a pile of envelopes and papers lying in a most perilous position on top of your desk?" I said, wishing to make the conversation turn in another direction.

"Oh, yes, I know. It is not very often that Mrs. Fairfax has enough time to spare in order to bring some semblance of order to that tower of letters and receipts, but she will take care of it as soon as she is able to."

"I see. Well, it would be easier and faster if I helped you myself, if there is no inconvenient that is." The words had left my mouth before I could think what I was saying.

"No, Jane, I cannot ask you to do that, I do not want you to feel _forced _to pass your free hours in the company of a crippled, doing everything for him because he is useless." He stood and left my side, taking a few steps towards the chimney. "Besides, your husband might not like the idea of you wasting your time with me."

"You are not useless, sir, and St. John would not mind if I were to help you; I have more than enough time to spare." I went to the desk and took a casual look at one of the letters, "I see that there are important documents here which demand your immediate attention."

"I am not quite sure that this idea of yours will work; you will have to come very often, and we will be alone for most of the time..."

"But, sir, I trust you and..."

"You should not, Jane!" His voice was fierce, and I saw that he was struggling to appear calm. "God, how innocent you are! You, pure-hearted creature, would never try to lure me, but I ignore if I am worthy of your trust, I do not even know if I can trust myself."

"I know you would never hurt me, sir, and I feel safe when I am in your company."

"And I feel alive when I am in yours, my young friend." His sincere statement brought tears to my eyes, and I knew then and there, that I could not leave him on his own, that we needed each other, that even though we could never be man and wife, we could still be platonic soul mates, that our respective solitudes could melt together in order to disappear from our lives. I needed him as much as he needed me.

"Mr. Rochester, forget all your doubts, I trust you, that is all that matters." I was standing near the troubled man, feeling the conflict within him; I put my right hand on his strong arm, trying to sooth him. "Sir, if we could only be friends...I know that you must loath me because of the decision I took, but if we could pretend that nothing has changed between us, if we could make believe..."

He covered my small hand with his, caressing it, his fingers telling him of the calluses that adorned my skin. "Everything has changed between us, my fairy, and yet everything has stayed the same within me. I won't lie, I detest to think of you at _his _side, as _his _wife, I hate the way _he_ talks of you, and how _that poor fool_ wishes to imprison your independent spirit; yes, I hate Rivers...but I cannot fail to understand that it is all for the better, that it is just as well that you are married to this parson..."

"Sir...?"

"You see, Jane, if you had come back to me alone, free of the chains that bind you to this man, I would have felt tempted to propose to you again; but it would have been an unfair act towards you, for a young and spirited being like you deserves to be paired with an able man, and to burden you with a withered man such as me would be a sin." He was not talking to me, but to the flames; but his virile profile would not let go of my gaze, for I had always cherished his rugged visage. "So, this knowledge, this certitude that you are in better hands now, appeases somewhat the stinging pain of jealousy, this foul feeling that has filled my heart since the moment Mrs. Fairfax told me of your marriage."

"Sir, you are not a withered man. Any woman would be proud to be your wife."

"I do not want "any woman", and you know it, little one."

"It is no use to talk of things that are beyond the realm of possibility. But to be your friend, Mr. Rochester, that is still within my boundaries, and I desire it with all of my heart, if only to be given back some of the things I lost when I left you. Could we go back to those blissful days, sir?"

My Edward faced me, my hand still in his, silence enveloping us in its heaviness, and an eternity passed around us, burying feelings and hiding thoughts, for sometimes it is better for things to be left unsaid.

"Your heart holds the answer, my Janet..."

His words were truer than ever.


	8. Chapter 7: Redemption

**Disclaimer: **Jane Eyre doesn't belong to me. Too bad...

**Note: **I'm sorry for not having updated any sooner, but I had a very busy summer, my family came over, which was pretty cool, but I had no time left to write this chapter! And then I'm going to start going to college in October, so these last months have been pretty eventful! Besides, I wished this chapter to be long...it will explain many things about Edward's past, because I realized that we actually know very little about him, besides his marriage to Bertha. Hope you all like it!!!!

I'd also like to thank you for your nice reviews! Chris, Kristin, Darkened Purity, SketchLives09, LadyShard, Pippapear, Faeriesongs, Valerie, Becki, IrishIsis, Murieann, SweetAudrina, Helena, elvespiratesandcowboysohmy, Karmancorn, GreysAddict21, sicilybelle, Muskoka Girl, Ellie...I have really loved to read your feedback!

**Chapter Seven**

The inky night of tempestuous firmaments that had witnessed my reunion with Mr. Rochester did not repeat itself over the following weeks. Summer was like a green, silky drapery covering the moors, bathing the land with liquid light, offering us, mere mortals, sunsets of solitary radiance.

My life had found a refreshing purpose, and I no longer spent my days trapped within walls that oppressed this soul of mine, so thirsty of freedom; but I must explain my erratic words, dear reader, for I do not desire to force you to follow me through dark mazes.

A shy, fragile rapport had been reestablished between Mr. Rochester and I, a tremulous bond, as hesitant as a wary flame that trembles in the mist of a sea storm; but for my starved soul, this was a bridge uniting me with my master.

The day after our supper at Ferndean I told St. John that I wished to help our landlord, pleading that a blind, lonesome man might find it difficult to administrate his papers, and as no more important occupations claimed me at the time, John found no pretext that could dissuade me, although he thought it necessary, or else he would not have been my ecclesiastical husband, to warn me about the perils of spending too much time and sympathy on perfidious men, for his condemning opinion of Mr. Rochester had not changed.

The first days I passed at Ferndean were filled with industrious activity, as there were countless missives that needed to be read, numberless answers that required to be given and quite a few complaints from Mr. Rochester's tenants that had to be examined. After a few hours of diligent work my numb fingers were often stained with blueish ink, reminding me of my years as a schoolgirl, those days when I used to put all my heart and soul in my naive pursuit of knowledge.

One late afternoon, as I was putting a burgundy colored wax seal upon a document I had just finished writing, Mr. Rochester, who seemed to be more melancholy than usual, began to pace the library, a clear sign that he was restless, slowly rubbing his temples with his forefinger and thumb; I observed him for some moments, before questioning him.

"Are you feeling ill, sir?", I asked, leaving the sealed envelope upon the other letters that waited to be dispatched.

"No, Jane, only exhausted. But I should not grumble, for it is you who must be truly tired; would you prefer to continue tomorrow?"

"I am not weary, sir, but if you do prefer it..."

"All right, then, let us finish for today, my little helper. It is not my wish to overtax you, Janet." He finally came to a halt, not far from where I was; even though he could not see me, sometimes I had the certitude that he could feel my presence.

Suddenly I felt that I needed to breath some fresh air, that I had to put some distance between him and me, and so I traversed the library, leaving him, almost rejecting him in my fear, lost in my doubts; his nearness had the ability to confound me.

"It is rather stuffy in here, don't you think so, sir?" I said, as I opened the ancient windows.

"It is...Say, Jane, would you care to go for a walk?"

"Sir, I..." But my stern master did not allow me to formulate an answer to his question.

"Of course, you do not have to come, Jane...I can manage very well on my own, you know. Pilot will come with me, if he is not sleeping the afternoon away, that is. " His defensive tone told me how much he disliked to feel dependent on someone else.

How could I ever resist to his petition, dear reader? Every second I spent in his company was an eternity of blissful agony, where past and present were joined to give me the impression that Mr. Rochester and I had never parted. If I walked once again by his side, with the limpid world around us and the rapture of summer within us, time and memory would surely take me back to that other summer night of confessions, to that moment when I felt loved for the first time in my simple life.

"I...I would be delighted to...to accompany you, sir." I was not surrendering to temptation, it was only friendship that made me want to be with Mr. Rochester, was it not? All was well...and yet uncertainty plagued me.

"All right, then." Even though his face remained solemn, I could discern a discreet happiness in his voice; but despite his almost imperceptible cheerfulness, an awkward silence fell over him.

"Shall we go then, sir?", I asked, seeing that he did not move.

"I...of course, let us go..." He gave a few steps, hesitantly, before stopping himself once more. "I am not well acquainted with the grounds surrounding Ferndean, so I will need you to... The devil take me, I am so much like a defenseless child these days...will you lead me, Jane?" His face was a mask of humiliation, his intonation, the very sound of bitterness, for he, Edward Fairfax Rochester, _my Edward, _had never relished the mere idea of being subjected to other people's sympathies and pities.

Dear reader, I do not need to describe to you the manner in which my master's chagrin touched me, the acute pain it dealt me; but in spite of my own anguish I had promised myself that I would rescue my dearest from his own demons.

"Mr. Rochester, you are far from being _defenseless_, I have even heard that your legendary evil mood proves quite the contrary! And your frame holds no resemblance to that of a child, tall and strongly built as you are; it is I who should feel lost and helpless in the presence of such an imposing man." My attempt to brighten his mood was mildly rewarded by a weak chuckle from my companion. "As to the fact that I shall be guiding you, well, sir, I am not sure about it, since, being myopic as I am, your hand gripping my shoulder might be the only thing that will keep us from walking off a cliff!"

"You dare to mock me, little imp? Walking off a cliff, indeed! There are no cliffs around my manor, witless fairy!" His grin was broader this time, becoming that smile of him that was the spiritual sustenance of my soul. "Besides even if there were, we would not be in danger, for your wings would carry us through the skies, and we would soar higher and higher, getting farther and farther from the mortal abyss..."

"My wings? Am I supposed to be some sort of bird large enough to carry you upon my back? Your ideas are strangely ludicrous, sir! I hope you won't ask me to play the part of that flying creature, for I am strongly attached to my dignity and I do lack some feathers, Mr. Rochester..." I was beaming as well, in spite of the ache that had haunted my heart a few moments ago, unable and unwilling to resist the absurdity of this teasing discussion with my dearest friend.

"No, not a bird, Janet...an angel!" His mischievous grin had been replaced by the gentlest of expressions, a tender smile that caressed his lips. "Yes, that's what you've always been, little one, a guardian angel who looks after me...even now. But let us go, my elfish friend, for the wonders of summer are waiting for us to bask in their golden beauty." And with these words from Mr. Rochester we left the library behind us, heading for the comforting freshness of a stroll at sunset.

Outside, the sun was shedding its last rays of warmth beauty, painting the low shrubs around us in colorful tones of unrealistic intensity. Birds were singing their delicate notes, a musical homage to that star of flames which was abandoning us.

Mr. Rochester's spirits seemed to have improved greatly since leaving the manor, there was not a trace of the moodiness that had plagued him earlier; his right hand was gripping my left shoulder, and he was not walking by my side, but slightly behind me.

"The earth looks as if it had just been painted by a divine hand, sir." I said, trying to describe to him, to the best of my ability, the superb landscape surrounding us. "I am sure that those colors that illuminate the leaves, and the shapes of the bushes and low trees have been created by the deft brush of an angelic artist." The wild beauty of the moors was difficult to convey to a sightless man, but my master's sensitive imagination would allow him to understand the charm of such a place.

"An angelic artist? I did not know that you had succeeded in changing the colors of our humble land, Janet!" Teased my joyful companion, an impish laugh softening his stern voice.

"You flatter me, sir! I assure you that I would be incapable of representing this enchanting view with my meager_ artistic talent._" The fingers holding my shoulder pinched my flesh with a playful squeeze, provoking a childish laugh to take possession of me. "Sir, if you continue to squeeze my shoulder in such an ungallant manner, I shall abandon you to your own devices, and I won't care if you manage to get back to Ferndean!"

"No, you won't, for your soul is kind, and you would never dare to leave a poor cripple all by himself, on an unknown lane!" I did not have to look at Mr. Rochester's amused visage to know that he was grinning.

"Do not tempt me! Anyway, why did you pinch me, sir? To know for sure that I am not a ghost come to haunt you, perhaps...?"

"No, it was your modesty and unbelief in your own considerable capacities that made me react in that fashion, my Janian friend! Meager talents, indeed! I can still see, with the eye of my mind, those watercolors you showed me years ago; they were so _ethereal_, the very artistry of an..."

"Not an angel, sir! I have already told you that I do not have enough feathers."

He chuckled again. "If not an angel's skill, then the very artistry of a _sprite_!"

"That suits me better, Mr. Rochester." I must admit that I reveled in the innocent badinage I was allowed to exchange with my dear friend; and suddenly my mind began to question itself: how had I managed to live without his daily companionship, how had I been able to bear the dullness of life without his teasing remarks? This man, who was considerably older than me, and whose high position in life differed so from my poverty, had the capacity of freeing my soul, had the gift of appeasing my heart, and he accomplished those miracles with his seemingly careless words as only device; with a pang of pain at the very core of my being, I realized that I had ceased to live during those years I had been away from him.

"Sir, would you like to rest for a while? There is large rock we could use for a bench, and the timid creek that runs by it adds to the agreeableness of the spot." I said, desirous to find some repose after more than half an hour of march.

There was indeed a low, flat boulder not far from where we were walking; its dark color was such a sharp contrast to the growing foliage scattered all around it that my eye had been attracted to it, and so I had also seen the thin thread of water that ran spiritedly among the shrubs.

"I do hear something like a rivulet nearby. I am not tired though, on the contrary, the stroll has reinvigorated me." In spite of his physical ailments, I had come to notice that Mr. Rochester's constitution had not dwindled in the least, and for that I was thoroughly delighted, although my aching feet told me that my slight frame was no match to his vitality. "But, thoughtless man that I am, I have not asked if you are weary. Would you prefer to sit in order to recover your strength, Jane?"

I was touched by his sincere concern, being unused to be treated with such gentleness; in my mind, I could not help comparing Mr. Rochester with St. John; I knew well that my husband would scorn my physical fatigue, considering it a deep flaw in a person such as me: _an unimportant young woman whose only goal in life was to embrace labor._

"I am rather fatigued, sir, but if you wish we can continue our walk, I would not mind..." I knew that Mr. Rochester did not leave Ferndean very often, and so I did not desire to cut short his infrequent outing.

"Nonsense! Not another word, and now takes us to that improvised bench you have spotted."

And so I directed our steps towards the boulder, avoiding the stones that punctured the path we were following. The runnel's water was crystalline as it reflected the receding light of twilight, transforming the brook into a unsteady, fluid mirror; all was calm around us. We sat side by side, the veil of silence enveloping us for some time. The peaceful serenade of crickets increased as the minutes passed, a sonorous tribute to the stars beginning to shine among the nocturnal clouds. My troubled soul wanted to remain forever in this cocoon of delectable dreaminess, in communion with this nature that spoke with a musical language.

"Can you hear them, sir? The crickets, I mean. They are singing for us, one might say..." The heat of the day was gone as the early evening had brought us a mild but cool wind, and so I adjusted the shawl that hung loosely about my arms, taking comfort in its warmth.

"Which means that it is getting late, Jane. Perhaps we should go back, or else you will get home at a very late hour. _He_ might disapprove and..."

"It is not that late, sir, not yet." The truth, dear reader, is that I desired to stay a bit longer in his company, enjoying those fine moments passed under a changing firmament, with the smell of fresh herbs and the appeasing sound of running water for sole witnesses. "Mr. Rochester, you once said that Ferndean had been erected in an insalubrious region, where even the strongest of constitutions would not last, and yet I find that the place possesses a pensive, unkempt beauty, sir."

"I wonder if you will continue to ascertain that notion when winter comes; I grant you that it is a wild, magnificent spot, or at least it was many years ago when we used to come here during the summer months, back when I was a young boy, but believe me, Jane, in winter..."

"You came here very often, as a child?" I asked him, not caring what he had to say about the winter months, but grasping those words he had accidentally dropped: _when I was a young boy_; my interest was instantly piqued for he had never told me of his childhood years, he had told me some episodes of his impetuous youth and had even talked about the years he had passed imprisoned in the claws of debauchery, seeking to silence his aching heart with the tempting pleasures of intemperance, but never had he spoken of his early years. It was then that I comprehended that there were shadows that encompassed Mr. Rochester, shades that obscured the man, umbrages that kept the truth at bay.

"Of course, Ferndean has been the family's hunting lodge for some generations now, although it is a very large estate to be considered as a mere hunting property. We would come every season, and sometimes we would even stay during the winter months."

"You have never spoken about your childhood, sir; may I know why?"

"And why would I ever speak about my childish, younger self, Jane? There is nothing to say about those years, and I am getting too old to recall those days!" A low chuckle told me that his apparent amusement was only a ruse to evade the subject.

"I was only wondering how you were, when you were little, because I would like to be able to picture you in my mind as you were once, and somehow I have some difficulties when I try to imagine your '_younger self'_, as you have put it."

"If you want so to imagine me as a young child, then you should know that I was quite smaller, and less disfigured...but perhaps you have forgotten what my face looked like years ago, before the fire.", said Mr. Rochester, as his voice abandoned its careless tone, charging his words with sour sarcasm for his tempestuous character could change as swiftly as the clouds of a brewing storm.

"I could never forget your face, sir...", I thought it best to stop my words there, while they were still harmless and void of any deep meaning, but how I longed to tell him that his cherished visage was engraved in my mind, that it would never cease haunting my dreams in my darkest nights.

"And yet it would not be difficult to relegate my face to the obscure confines of oblivion. What, with your youngish, fair-haired, good looking reverend of a husband!"

"Sir!"

"Yes, Mrs. Fairfax has spared no detail while describing to me your handsome Apollo. Now that you have _him, _why would you even want to remember this wretched visage, when you can look at him every single day? When you can love _him _and have _him_, Janet."

"Sir, do not speak like that, I beseech you! It is no use talking such absurdity." It was impossible to keep myself from taking his only hand in both of mine, in what was a futile attempt to appease his distress. He was so surprised to feel my touch, as if he had lost all hope that I would ever caress him again, but, are friends not there to support us in our bleakest moments? And I was his friend, even though my implacable conscience reminded me that I longed to be so much more than a friend to him.

His violent pain seemed to relent, but he would not let go of my hands, and if truth is to be told, I did not wish for him to release them. I was facing him now, for he had turned his body towards mine, for once not trying to hide his expression, and so I could take in what could be seen of his rugged profile under such a darkening sky, drinking in his imperfect, virile beauty. _How wrong you are, thinking that I could ever prefer the good looks of a heartless man, _I ached to cry.

"Jane, my little one...", his voice was gentle, and if his agony tortured me, his gentleness nearly broke my resolve to stay calm, to keep from yelling the truth out loud. "I should never speak in such a manner to you, for I do not seek to distress you, and yet...I am aways losing my temper, especially when I think of you and that hateful fellow, together, as man and wife; the only way to stay sane is to pretend that he is not your husband, that you are a free woman, not one married to another, that we are friends because we have decided to be so, not because it is the only thing we can ever be: sometimes I yield to the enticement of living within this world of pretense, but jealousy will destroy me one day, darling."

I was relieved that he was incapable to see the silent tear running down my cheek. "Mr. Rochester, do not call me that, please." I said, in a feeble attempt to resist the urge to succumb to his loving phrases.

"How am I supposed to call you then, Jane? You are my love, my life, my joy, my beloved; you are all of that in my heart. I call you all those names within my head, and when I dream of you, you answer me with a fervor that matches mine; but, I know, those are the impossible reveries of a lost man." He bowed his head until his lips could brush the back of my left hand, and placed a tender kiss upon it, then he turned away his face, as if his unseeing eye could see the moors under the pallid light of the rising moon. "I know that I risk losing your friendship, when I speak like this, but I cannot help it, my dear; there is a maddening maelstrom within me. Perhaps we should stop seeing each other, I would understand if you chose not to come anymore."

"Never. I won't leave you, sir; besides, I am not afraid of you." I said, drying a few tears with the back of my free hand, for he was still holding my left hand. "If I am your love, sir, then you are my light." I added, before my brain could censure those too frank words.

"Your light?" He touched once again my hand with his lips, softly caressing my fingers with the rough skin of his chin. "It is odd for a man who lives without light to be someone else's light, my fairy."

"And yet, that is what you are, dear sir." I leaned forward to kiss his scarred cheek, a chaste gesture that amazed him as much as it surprised me. He clasped my hand in a stronger hold, and turned his blind eye once again in my direction, as if wishing to question me with his sightless gaze, as if trying to read my thoughts like he was once capable of doing. I could feel his confusion, his shattered hopes and his growing fears, and suddenly I felt ashamed of myself, not wanting him to think that I was wantonly toying with him. "I am sorry, sir..." I began, but my apologies were cut short.

"Do not be, Jane. It was a wondrous moment, to feel cherished by you for the briefest of seconds...I thought I would never feel that again. You did nothing wrong, friends might sometimes show their affection for each other. But it is different between us; you know that I find it difficult to change the nature of my sentiments towards you, and so, if we are to remain friends, then we should avoid such physical demonstrations; but it is my fault...I should not touch you, or else..." He did not finish his sentence, letting his voice die away with the mild wind of the evening.

Nature stood still, waiting patiently for my master's baritone to break the quietude. For a long moment, he kept silent, as a thoughtful expression took hold of his features. Finally, he spoke:"Maybe I will tell you about my childhood, Jane, but not now; it is a long story, you see, and a surprising one as well...You might judge me in a different manner afterwards."

"Sir, if it pains you to talk about those far away years, then I do not wish you to tell me. It was out of curiosity that I asked you those questions, but I will not mind if you desire to keep those memories for you alone."

"I shall tell you all the same, one of these days; it may explain so many things. And now we should get back, Jane"

We retraced our steps back to Ferndean, walking leisurely, side by side, for Mr. Rochester did not need to grab my shoulder, as we were still holding hands; our fingers had remained intertwined, and neither Mr. Rochester nor I appeared to be inclined to let go of the other's hand; but it was not the furtive grasp of lovers when their hands long to be forever united: no, it was more like the grip of a homeless child who has at last found someone who will love him and care for him.

* * *

Night had already brought its kingdom upon the moors when I reached the cemetery, that lugubrious entrance that led to the house next to Evenwood Parish, _my home_, or so it was supposed to be. Against all odds, a wavering, minuscule candlelight threw a dim halo against the opened window: St. John was home. This notion caused my steps to quicken by instinct, but after a few strides my legs stopped themselves of their own accord, unsure of how my husband would react to the fact that I had been wandering the moors, at such a late hour 

If I had permitted myself to stay longer than usual at Ferndean, it was only because I knew fully well that John would not be home before midnight, as were his habit. Had I miscalculated the hour? After guiding Mr. Rochester back to Ferndean, I had immediately taken the shortest path to the parish, and I had walked with a swift pace. I looked up, seeking my answer far above my head, contemplating the inky skies; no, it was not yet ten o'clock. Yet my husband was already home.

I hurried along the narrowing path leading to the unpretentious cottage. The door was ajar, for the air of the night, though a bit fresh, was perfumed with those aromas so distinctive of summer; John would usually let windows and doors unlatched by such scented nights. I let myself in, entering the ill lit room, my husband's back greeting my arrival; St. John was sitting before the modest work table placed beneath the opposite wall's window, his neck almost sunk between his shoulders as he leaned his head towards the improvised desk, his right, well-formed hand writing away with zealous fervor, probably redacting a homily. He had heard undoubtedly heard me, but chose not to acknowledge my presence; it was clear that he was waiting for me to address him, and so I humored him.

"Good night, St. John," I said, as I removed my shawl, barely glancing his way, for I knew that he would not even look at me to answer my greeting. " I trust you had a good day."

"Good night, Jane", said my spouse with a curt nod, his golden, lustrous hair cascading down his temples and forehead. "I had an almost very good day indeed, if I were to ignore the fact, _the most bizarre fact, _that when I arrived home tonight, wanting to find some domestic solace, I found our abode rather deserted. No supper, no welcoming wife. Nothing." He turned himself completely towards me, and I found myself being examined by the cold emanating from his blue eyes. "And I can assure you that that is not the natural order of things, Jane."

"I am sorry, John, but time passes so rapidly..."

"May I remind you that you are a parson's wife, not a peasant? I have told you many times: _you must set the example, so others can follow." _His pleasant voice was sedate, dissimulating the contempt that animated his glacial gaze. "You are supposed to be the very image of demureness, and here you are, behaving yourself like a _feral_ girl, not better than an indecent daughter of sin who roams the wastelands under the protection of darkness."

"How dare you?" I could not keep boiling outrage from tainting my words. "You know very well the reason why..."

"Oh, yes, Jane, I know your reasons. You were helping our blind landlord, and I do find your actions most magnanimous, but you should not forget what the villagers say of that man, you should not ignore his poor reputation."

I had to control my tongue with the fiercest of determinations to prevent myself from telling him the truth about Mr. Rochester and I. _How could he judge so easily a man he barely knew? Surely God would never sanction St. John's harsh words regarding his fellow men! _But it was my heart who spoke in such violent terms, as my reasoning tried to calm its passionate rage. _Ignore his pitiless words, Jane, for it is his zeal that blinds his acute mind; besides, you must not let him see the sentiments you hide._

"I fear for your purity and innocence." Continued my restless interlocutor. "Your simple soul is worthy of our Eternal Father, and it is your generous spirit that pushes you to aid the helpless, but as I have told you before, you must not spend too much time in the company of perverted souls, for the cleanness of your heart could be sullied, and your thoughts could be infected by their blasphemies." In my indignation I realized that he seemed to believe what he said, that he really thought that my spirit was in danger; poor John, he could only comprehend the world around him when he saw it in dull shades of black and white, his discernment could only grasp the idea of good and evil.

"Do not worry, John; I do not incur the eternal damnation of the afterlife by frequenting a solitary man...a man who has lost all he held dear." I added, a pang of guilt piercing my breast, knowing that it was I who had taken everything from my adored master.

"All he held dear? I see that you are beginning to know more about Mr. Rochester, which means that you are opening yourself to him; oh, you are too guileless to fully understand the risks of your behavior, Jane. However, I am here to guard Our Lord's lambs from Evil, especially you, the wife He has given me; so, from now on, I forbid you..."

"You _forbid_ me? I am not an orphaned child anymore, John, you cannot possibly..."

"Yes, I can, because I am your husband and you have sworn to obey me, you have given your word before God and men. And so, as I was saying, before you interrupted in such a rude manner, from now on, you are not..."

"But he needs me, John! He has no one to help him, and he is so alone. Our Lord would undoubtedly want us, you and I _-His servitors-_ to lead His strayed son to the true path." I pleaded, not wanting to hear him pronounce those final words that would keep me from seeing Mr. Rochester; John was not mistaken, I had made a vow before Our Eternal Father, a vow of obedience.

"And help him you shall. But you are not to spend idle time with him, and you shall not stay at Ferndean after sunset, for I am quite sure that with your skill and diligence, whatever tasks you help him to accomplish can be finished during the day."

"And what if I refuse? I am not a prisoner, to be told where to go, and when to return." I asked, saying words that were the product of my remaining anger.

"Of course, you may refuse. God has given you freedom. But, are you ready to break the promise you made before the altar, will you disregard the holy pledges of marriage? Will you defy God's Law? Will you disobey me, Jane?"

"Perhaps I won't disobey the Lord by disobeying you." I do not know what made me say those words, but it gave me some satisfaction to challenge his authority.

A thin smile was drawn upon his handsome countenance, but it was a mirthless smile, not even the shadow of the smile I had witnessed so many times upon another man's visage.

St. John stood up, his movements were free of any haste which might betray his annoyance. He took the candle with him, and turned his back to me, transforming his Grecian profile in nothing more than a quivering shadow hinted against the naked wall. Then he spoke.

"You should not forget either, that in remote places such as this very parish where we live, surrounded by obscure villages, gossip travels with amazing celerity. If you do not heed my advice, I can assure you that they will begin to talk before long; you will find yourself subjected to their perfidious imaginations, and you will lose their respect; _we _will lose their respect...and that, I shall not allow. Good night, Jane."

He walked away, leaving me in the darkness of a deserted drawing-room.

* * *

I pondered John's words over the next days, knowing that there was no way to escape to the disagreeable rigidity of his imposed rules. How could I, a grown, independent woman, be subjected to the capricious will of a man? But subjected I was, for that man was my husband. Society was implacable towards women, forever condemning them to remain the slaves of men, forever pushing them to behave like unintelligent creatures, forever humiliating them because of their gender. And so I was forced, because of my condition, to do as as I was told. 

One or two weeks after that night of heated remarks, John, to his great surprise, was called to London, for he had been invited to participate at an assembly that would gather all the parsons from our region, and so he and his superior, Reverend Glyver, left, planning to pass at least three or four nights in the capital. Which meant that I was free for a few days.

It was the day after St. John's depart that I discovered_ the lake_. You see, dear reader, I had taken a detour to go to Ferndean, wishing to see more of Mr. Rochester's property. I strayed from the usual road, refusing to follow someone else's footprints; my steps wished to make a path of their own, to go to places I had not yet perceived. A shaded area of tall trees proudly reaching the low clouds attracted my eye, so different they were to the rest of the of the moors, where only low shrubs broke the barrenness of the land. I went towards the wilderness, wanting to stroll under the luxury of the high canopy; I was not disappointed, for the place was delectable with its natural, disorganized allurement. Birds of different kinds invaded the tall branches, arguing with their fragile voices at the sight of a human being. My lingering pace brought me to what seemed to be a clearing, but as I came closer the place revealed itself to be a large pool of placid water, bounded by a row of trees that leaned their long branches to touch the glassy lake. It was a most fascinating view, this place which seemed to have fallen into oblivion, this abandoned spot, a veritable temple of nature. I stayed there, unmoving, for a few moments, basking in the quietness of the beautiful scene, absorbed in my silent meditations; I suddenly thought of how delighted Mr. Rochester would be if I were to bring him here, and even if he could not see, there would be so many things to describe to him; yes, I would not care about his protestation, I knew that it would do him a great deal of good to leave more often his manor in order to spend some hours in the open. With this resolution in my mind, I made my way to Ferndean.

* * *

I opened the library door, and let myself in. At first I thought that the room was deserted, but when I looked closely, I saw the top of a raven-haired head resting on the right arm of the upholstered settee which faced the chimney. I walked silently towards the seat, not wanting to disturb the reposing man. Mr. Rochester lay comfortably upon the elegant seat, his eye closed in a relaxed manner, his breathing deep and regular; he was asleep. Lying on the floor, not far from Mr. Rochester, his massive head resting on his front paws, old _Pilot_ seemed to share his master's dormancy. I stood still, knowing that the most minuscule noise might be perceived by the dog's acute ear, who would surely alert his owner about my presence. Rivulets of light pierced the dimness of the place, coming through the heavy windows, and illumining the quietude of the library. I observed Mr. Rochester's form for a long time, avidly drinking in all the details of his physiognomy at rest; a fierce wave of heat invaded my cheeks, for I felt like a trespassing thief who looks down on his unaware victim, and yet I was incapable of detaching my eyes from him. His strong features had abandoned their customary severity, giving him a placid air; his hair was slightly tousled, and the barest hint of stubble showed on his angular cheeks and prominent chin. His mutilated arm rested on his chest, falling and rising with every breath he took; the lacerated wrist had lost the silk handkerchief which would usually cover the amputation's scars, and so the ghastly gashes were exposed to my horrified regard; my eyes were instantly filled with burning tears, as I saw the physical torments my Edward had endured, and in that moment I longed so to embrace his warm body, to kiss his sightless eye and his stern lips, to caress his marred stump...but conscience shunned those sinful ideas, and so I dried my wet cheeks with the back of my hand, attempting to stop them from falling so freely. 

_I should not stay here any longer_, I told myself, reprimanding me for intruding upon Mr. Rochester's intimacy; it occurred to me that I could go in search of Mrs. Fairfax, so as to spend the rest of the morning chatting with the good lady. I had almost reached the door when the ancient, creaking parquet announced my presence, pulling _Pilot _from his stupor; the beast barked excitedly, waving his tail like a mad pendulum as he came my way in search of an acknowledging pat. The master of the house had been awoken, his unseeing eye fluttering open as if suddenly remembering that no light would pass through his damaged pupil to redeem him from the darkness; all aspirations for a unobtrusive retreat were now evaporated, and so I stood there, still and quiet, a reproachful feeling of guilt reigning in my heart, for I could not deny to myself that I had appreciated those fleeting moments I had passed observing Mr. Rochester being held in the soothing arms of Morpheus.

"Mrs. Fairfax? Do you happen to know if Miss Eyre has finally arrived?", he asked, his voice a bit coarse from his recent nap, as he sat up on the settee.

"It is I, sir." I explained. "I am sorry for being late, but I thought you would not mind if I arrived later than the usual hour."

"No, of course I do not mind it; besides, there is no obligation which forces you to come here every day, Jane. I thought that you had decided not to come today." His fingers were massaging his neck, as if the position he had adopted during his slumber had strained his muscles.

"Oh, no, sir, I would never decide such a thing! But this morning, as I left the cottage, I was tempted to see more of your lands, and so I meandered through the moors surrounding your manor, and I am quite happy that I did, for I found a most enchanting place, sir!" My voice soared slightly with an almost childish enthusiasm, but I did not cared, for I felt alive in my master's presence.

"You did? Let me imagine what kind of place that might be. Mmhh..." He appeared to be deep in thought, although I knew that he was only teasing me. "Have you found your people's little village? I am sure that you have come upon some of your sisters as they were dancing in the middle of a ring made with summer flowers, and so they must have taken you directly to see their king...Are my assumptions right, mischievous elf?" A lopsided smile made his visage look quite younger, and as impish as a lively schoolboy.

"Sir, your extravagant imagination will never cease to amaze me! You are what the French would call _un enfant terrible._"

"_Eh bien, je vous remercie de tout mon coeur, mon amie!_ You have lifted quite a few years from me by calling me a child, and for that, my dear friend, I cannot thank you enough! Come sit near me, whimsical creature." He patted the seat beside him, and I did as he bade.

"Whimsical, sir? I am a most rational person, and I fear that it is you who are capricious."

"Perhaps."

He seemed to be on the brink of saying something else, but as his left forearm brushed his thigh, Mr. Rochester realized that his mutilated wrist was uncovered; he instantly hid the offending limb in his good hand, as if ashamed of me seeing his scars.

"Do you see a white handkerchief somewhere nearby, Jane? It must have detached from my wrist while I was resting. Could you please retrieve it?"

"I do not see...Oh, there, I found it." I pulled the piece of silk from beneath the settee, and handed it to him.

"Thank you."

It was not easy for him to secure the handkerchief around his stump, for his deft fingers lacked the precision that only sight could bestow to them.

"Allow me to help you, sir." Said I, taking the elegant fabric from his hand.

"There is no need..." Was his attempt to dissuade me from aiding him, for it was clear that he wished me to avoid seeing his disfigured forearm; but it was too late, for I was already proceeding to fix the soft cloth in a way that would cover his cicatrices. At one point my fingers touched the raw, angry skin which covered the amputated wrist, and so I felt my dear master's arm try to break the contact with my hands, as if afraid of provoking repulsion in me.

"I hope you do not mind touching my...it must be a dreadful, disgusting sight...does it bother you, Jane?" He tried to keep his voice unconcerned, but his clenched jaw told me that the subject caused a great deal of distress within him.

"Not in the least, sir." I stroked the naked, marred flesh, before enveloping it in the whiteness of the handkerchief. "With that refined silk around your arm, you certainly look the very epitome of a gentleman of good taste."

"Silly lass! You transform my absent hand into a fashionable attribute." His unease seemed to be gone. " And now, out with it, elfin spirit."

"Out with what, sir?"

"You had been telling me about a wondrous place you had come across."

"Oh, yes. Well, it really is a most beautiful sight, for there are tall trees, which are no usual in this part of the moors, and then there is a lake as well, beautiful and tranquil, in the midst of that unexpected wilderness."

"So, you have found it. The lake, I mean." A very sad smile shadowed his features.

"You knew of the existence of that lake, sir? After all, it is rather far from Ferndean, sir."

"Yes, but as a young boy I would go there very often...How things change through the years."

I knew that no answer was required to his remark, and so I said nothing, waiting for him to explain his words.

"Perhaps it is time for me to tell you some things about my first years, although these truths are rather difficult to share, that is why I lock them away, most of the time."

"Sir, if you do not wish to tell me..."

"No, Jane, it will be all right. You have told me so many things about your childhood, and yet I have never opened myself to you. Stay here while I retrieve something from my bedchamber...something I have been planning to show you; then we shall go to the lake."

Mr. Rochester took his wooden cane, which had been resting next to the chimney, and left me alone in the library, for _Pilot _followed his blind master. It was not long before I heard his footsteps again, but this time there was no dog accompanying him; he closed the door behind him, and came to seat by my side once more, leaving his cane in its usual place. He then took a small, golden object from the pocket of his dark vest: it was a locket; he gave it to me.

"Go ahead, open it, Jane."

There was a _K_ engraved on the golden lid of the locket. I opened it; a ringlet of auburn hair fell upon the palm of my hand, while my eyes were met by a young boy's profound regard and by the lovely, dark eyes of a woman. The child must have been nine or ten years old, but his gaze seemed somehow incongruent with his age, being a mixture of innocence and insight; his eyes were dark but luminous and large, crowned by thick lashes which rendered them beautiful; the boy's wavy hair was a dark shade of brown as it fell on the swarthy skin of his smooth forehead. I was seeing Mr. Rochester as he had once been, his childish features portrayed by a very skilled artist so many years ago. A sentiment of tenderness overwhelmed my entire being at the sight of that boy, with his quiet, discerning eyes; my master had been a sweet-looking child. I examined the handsome woman portrayed next to the young Edward Rochester; her eyes were an older version of the little boy's ones, almost black, large and graceful, though a bit more delicate, a tad more feminine, being a most beautiful contrast to her alabaster skin and auburn hair; her expression, however, was that of a woman who has known long years of suffering, as there seemed to be a shadow of sadness hanging over her. I returned the keepsake to my interlocutor.

"My mother, Katherine. The locket belonged to her." said Mr. Rochester. "And there is me as well, but you have undoubtedly guessed it; I was almost eleven years old when she engaged an Italian painter to depict our likenesses."

"She was a very beautiful woman, sir."

"Yes, I know. Now, Janet, would it be awfully tiring for you to lead a blind man to the lake? It has been many a year since the last time I visited that spot."

"Then I shall be delighted to take you there. What do you say of taking some refreshments, so we can have our luncheon in the open? I could quickly go to the kitchen and prepare us something."

"That is a brilliant idea. Would you like me to help you with the preparations? I mean...I do not know how to cook, but perhaps...well..."

"Do not worry, sir, I shall be able to put some bread and cheese together." I smiled at the thought of the master of the house awkwardly trying to produce something that would resemble food. "I won't be long." I said, as I crossed the library's threshold.

Some fifteen minutes later I reentered the library, loaded with an old basket containing sandwiches, bread, jam, ham, a variety of cheeses, and a bottle of wine for my master. Mrs. Fairfax had been delighted when I had told her that Mr. Rochester desired to go out, for, according to the old lady's words, in the last few months before my arrival, the man had been most impossible and would refuse to leave the manor. The object of our discussion stood up from the moment he heard my steps.

"I trust you have not ravaged my kitchen, little witch!" Was the welcome he accorded me.

"Of course not, sir; you should be able to find some bread crumbles remaining, if you were to search carefully. Are you ready to part?"

"Yes, let us leave. Jane."

And so we left Ferndean's library behind us, seeking the paradisaic lake of my master's youth.

* * *

The trees formed a tight web of branches and leaves above our heads, filtering the light of the sun falling on us. Noises of a wide variety of animals came to our ears, but the most pleasant one was the pure choir sang by diminutive birds perched on the highest branches. We had walked for more than half an hour, and the heat had set my head aflame, inciting me to regret to wear such warm garments, but decorum was a ruthless tyrant, and so I was forced to follow its dictates. 

"Would you mind if I were to unburden myself from my vest, Jane? I know that in the sake of propriety I should not do so, but I cannot bear that infernal vestment anymore." Mr. Rochester said, as if reading my mind; he appeared to be suffering as much as me by the hotness of the day.

"You may do as you wish, sir. I promise you I won't be shocked." I said, not without feeling some envy towards my companion, for, being a man, it was easier for him to put custom aside.

"And now, my young friend, let me tell you my story...", he began as I unpacked the succulent sandwiches I had made for us, and handed him one. "Oh, thank you, I was already getting hungry." A long pause followed, for he ate slowly. "As I have already told you, my family and I would come to Ferndean every summer, even when I was a very young child. My father, Ferdinand Rochester, would pass countless hours hunting game, a shotgun in his adroit hands; he was a very skilled hunter, because he was immune to pity. Yes, he was a heartless man...but I should not get ahead of myself. Rowland, my elder and only brother, who was seven years my senior, would follow father everywhere, always wanting to imitate him; as the years passed they came to share the love of manly pastimes, and became very much alike, even psychically. It was not long before I understood that father ignored me, a notion that did not affect me much, for I was very attached to my mother, who showered me with her strong affection. I knew that my father's coldness towards me was caused by my own personality: I was a rather quiet boy, as different from his first-born son, as light differs from darkness. During our sojourns in Ferndean my love for nature would make me spend many hours observing the animals that populated the moors, and I would be most outraged when I would find Rowland and father tracking down helpless beasts. When Rowland left for school, I was quite happy for a few years, for I did not miss his constant verbal abuses and mocking jests.

He stopped as if to gather his thoughts, drank some wine from the goblet I had passed to him, and continued his story. "You know something, Janet? Rowland makes me think of that awful Reed cousin of yours, John; those two were of the same kind...It was decided that I was not to attend school, for mother wished to keep me by her side, and so it was agreed that a tutor would take care of my education at home. Mr. Andrews, my preceptor, was a good-natured man, and I took an immediate liking to the man; he would tell me about the explorers of yore and the adventurers of our century, feeding my hungry imagination and developing my thirst for wider horizons." There was a regretful smile on my master's countenance. "But in a household full of adults, I would often feel as lonely as a little ghost who has been forgotten in a deserted castle, and it was better for me to stay out of mischief, as father had a penchant for punishing me in harsh ways. And so I was delighted when, one summer, as we were staying at Ferndean, I met Emma..."

"Emma...who is she, sir?" I had not meant to interrupt his account, but the words were out of my mouth before I could think them over. A vague feeling of apprehension grew within my bosom, but I refused to acknowledge it, for it could not possibly be...no, I was not a jealous woman, but a rational one!

"Emma was our gardener's daughter; old Tom had recently lost his wife, and so he had seen fit to place his young daughter as a scullery maid. I was thirteen that summer; I remember that I had the habit of taking long walks through the moors, armed with a sketchbook and some charcoals, for I was quite the artist at the time. During one of my solitary strolls I encountered this tomboyish girl, and we became friends; Emma was my age, and managed to escape her duties in the manor more often than not, and so we would often play together; we were a most unlikely pair: young master Edward running and jumping with a slip of a girl who lacked manners and had a mouth capable of making a sailor blush! But we were good pals, and she showed me so many things I would never learn under the careful tutelage of Mr. Andrews, from learning how to nurse an injured bird back to health to swearing like the meanest of ruffians." He gave a low chuckle, as if he was living once more those days of childish joy; I felt utterly foolish for the irrational feeling which had taken hold of my heart only moments ago, for I understood that Mr. Rochester spoke of his friend as one might speak of a sister. "It was then that I proposed to teach her to read and to write, for Emma had never been to school; she was very enthusiastic about it, and so we agreed to meet every afternoon by this very lake, for it was here that most of our games took place, being a secluded spot, a place somewhat far from the manor...as you must imagine, our friendship was our dearest secret, knowing that father would undoubtedly chastise me if he were to know of our escapades."

"And what happened next, sir?"

"The first lessons were a bit hard for Emma, but she was a clever girl, and so we were able to make some progress. One evening, as she was finishing a rather tough exercise, I heard odd noises coming for the trees around us; dusk had begun to descend upon us -a torch set on the ground had helped us to see the books spread upon the grass-, and so when I inspected our surroundings I saw no one. I forgot that little incident as I headed back to Ferndean. There was some sort of agitation amongst the servants when I got home, and when I asked Mr. Andrews what all that commotion was about, he informed me that Rowland was finally home, for he had just finished school. I was not eager to see him, but good manners compelled me to go and bid him welcome; I found him in the drawing-room, in the company of our parents. Father seemed to be ecstatic, for his favorite son was now back, and more important of all, he had turned into a most imposing young man, for he was indeed massively built, and his boisterous laugh filled the room. We exchanged a few words, but time and distance had not augmented our brotherly affection, and so I went to bed early that night, preferring the calmness of my bedchamber to my brother's loud voice."

"Perhaps he had changed during the time he spent at school; why did you not give him the chance to prove that he was no longer the same?"

"Rowland had not changed, Jane. He had been a brutish lad, and now he had become a vicious young man; besides, even if I had wanted to give him a chance to show me his true nature, he did not give me the time to do so. Something happened, you see..." Mr. Rochester bowed his head, as if he was submerged in the events which had taken place so many years ago; it looked as if the words he was about to say cost very dear to his soul. "The next afternoon, I had some difficulty finishing a translation from a Latin text which my preceptor had assigned me, so when I finally finished it, Mr. Andrews gave me some other grammar exercises; I was late for Emma's lesson, but I did not hasten my step for my friend and pupil had often made me wait by the lake, always pretexting that she had had much work to accomplish in the scullery, but I knew that the infuriating girl was most careless about time and punctuality. But what followed has filled me with guilt and disgust so long, guilt for knowing that I could have changed things if I had only been there in time, and disgust because I cannot deny that I was responsible...I hesitate to tell you about it, Janet, for it is not my wish to shock you."

"Sir, if you do wish to relate to me those moments, then I am eager to hear you, especially if it would unburden your conscience; do not fear upsetting my sensibilities." I said, as I took his strong right hand in both of mine, to help him to remember that I was by his side; my dear master ran his thumb along my calloused fingers, caressing them with and adoring tenderness; I felt quite ashamed of the ugliness of my hands, as they had been blemished by too much washing and scrubbing, so I tried to disentangle them from Mr. Rochester faultless digits.

"Dearest," that sole word sent shivers down my spine, "your little, damaged hands are more beautiful than a queen's delicate, perfect hands." He took my left hand to his mouth, as if to kiss it, but as he was about to do so, he stopped himself and let go of my fingers, closing his facial expression to my scrutiny. "I am sorry, Jane...I know that I should not be so..._affectionate _towards you...I must learn to be a gentleman around you, my little fairy."

"But you have not told me what happened, sir...I mean, with Emma." I said, trying to change the subject, for my cheeks had become warm because of his gentleness.

"And I would love to let you remain ignorant of what was to happen, but if I am to finish my tale, I must continue my confessions. So, where was I?"

"You were late for the girl's lesson..."

"Oh, yes. Well, as I neared the lake I was not astonished to find the spot deserted, for she had the unnerving tendency of coming to her lessons well after the agreed hour. But it was not long before I heard preoccupying noises, as if someone had been hurt, as if someone had been running. I looked around for only a few seconds before searching behind some overgrown shrubs; it was then that my eyes were met by a horrible scene...Emma was lying on the ground, but her face was contorted with pain, her eyes were wet with shedding tears...And on top of her there was...Rowland was hurting her, his large hand wrapped over my friend's mouth, and he was panting, frenetically panting, as if he had been running...Emma was pulling his fair hair, scratching his pale face, but she was not strong enough for him...I saw all of this in only one second, for the next second I was on that scoundrel's back, pulling at him with all my forces, punching his face...but I was only a boy, and he was a grown man, so when he gave me a violent blow with the back of his sturdy hand, I was thrown off him, losing consciousness. When I came to my senses, everything was over. Emma was kneeling, not far from me, sobbing quietly; her skirts were torn and bloodied, her hair was loose, and some bruises darkened her girlish face. I tried to help her, but she refused to talk to me, and she did not desire to come with me...And yet I was unable to leave her by herself, not after what had happened, even though I desired with all my heart to find Rowland, to kill him, to make him pay for what he had done to an innocent girl, to my only friend; but I stayed with Emma, and when night came I did not move from her side. She fell asleep after some time, and I was only drifting to sleep myself when I heard voices yelling our names; men carrying torches came our way, and among the search party I saw old Tom, leading the others to find his daughter; when they saw Emma's state, they understood what had transpired in this secluded place, hidden from unwanted witnesses. They seized me, believing that they had found the culprit, for even my claims of innocence were nothing against their anger, for Emma was incapable of speaking; she was nothing more than a frail, shivering little figure. They took us to Ferndean, to see my father; they showed him Emma's injuries, the meaningful stains on her torn clothes; I was formally accused of ...of abusing my best friend, and when I opened my mouth to tell them who had done such an atrocious act, my father struck me, and called me a liar. He did not believe me; no one did...except for my mother, who had a hard time believing that her oldest son was a coward capable of hurting young girls in such a way..."

"But surely your father was not so heartless, so completely devoid of paternal love towards you, that he could think that such charges against you were true..."

"He was heartless indeed. My _father _decided that I was to be punished the next day, publicly chastised..."

"No, sir...How could he? To make you pay for another's sins...!" The thought of my dear Edward being subjected to the pain and humiliation of an unjust, public chastisement was too much to bear; warm tears filled my eyes.

"I was taken to the stables, the next day, at noon. Mother was not there; she had fainted earlier that morning, when her husband had told her what awaited me. They tied me to a tree...I had been stripped of my shirt. Mr. Andrews objected against such barbarous treatment, but he was ignored. Rowland was there as well; I can still see his sadistic smile. Then _he _took the whip and began my punishment. I thought I would die because of the pain...I was only a child, Jane. Some tears slid down my cheeks, and I felt humiliated by them. Tom waited patiently for my father to finish, and then, with my sire's permission, gave free rein to his rage, lacerating my back with as much force as he could summon, and he was a rather strong man for his age. Then it was over. Mr. Andrews took me to my chamber; it was him who looked after me over the next days, nursing my wounds, and feeding me, for I had lost too much blood and I was very weak."

I could not keep from imagining Mr. Rochester's crisscrossed back; I burnt with the urge of caressing his old scars, of kissing those healed wounds I had never seen, but I knew that propriety condemned such intimate gestures of affection, even between friends.

"It was only when I was completely recovered, a week or so later, that my preceptor told me of my mother's delicate condition: she had not left her bed since the day I had been punished; she had always had a frail health. Over the following weeks my mother's malady developed rapidly, withering her body, and weakening her spirit; the physician was puzzled, for he could not find a cure, and so he advised us not to hope for much. One day, I was called to her bedside, for she wished to see me; Rowland and father were out, hunting, for I must say that they did not seem to be very worried about her illness. So I went to her, a sad joy invading my young heart, for I had not been permitted to see my mother for some days, and now I was to spend precious time with her; she needed to tell me some things, she said, and so I listened, as her words took me from unbelief to outraged anger. You see, Janet, I was not Ferdinand Rochester's son..."

"But, sir..." I did not know what to say, so surprised was I by his revelation.

"I know, my dear, you have always called me Mr. Rochester, and the world knows me as such, but you must know that I am nothing more than a miner's bastard son."

"So, you have known your real father...how...?"

"No, but my mother told me about him. It was an odd love story, but if I were to believe my dying mother's words, she had loved that man very much. She said that since that moment she had been forced to marry Ferdinand Rochester -for it was her father who had found her a husband-, she had known that she would be quite unhappy. She gave him a son, nonetheless, trying hard to fulfill her wifely duties, but her husband's meanness did not relent; her marriage was a veritable torture. Her only solace was helping others who were far less fortunate herself; she would distribute warm clothes to those who had nothing but rags to keep out the chill in winter, she would feed those who were hungry, and teach those who were ignorant, and so the destitute people of Hay -the little village near Thornfield...oh, of course you remember the place- considered my mother to be their guardian angel. Amongst those wretches there had been a man, a miner working in a coal mine not far from Hay, someone who had no family, who could not dream of a future, and whose meager wages would force to come to beg for a bowl of porridge in winter. She had been touched by the man's distress and he had been stirred by my mother's generosity; they fell in love, and within a few months she found herself to be with child...She told me that, when she informed her lover about her condition, he had been overtaken with joy...He really loved her, you see...and I was desired by _him_... I, who had always been spurned by whom I had believed to be my father , I was already cherished by _him_..." My master's voice was a bit thick with emotion, and a smile crossed my lips in response to his moving words.

"I am sure he was a very worthy man, sir..."

"Yes, I believe so as well, Jane. But I should not digress; my mother desired to take my brother with her, leaving Ferdinand forever, not caring about her lover's lack of money and social position. But a servant, who knew my mother's secret, alerted Rochester, and so he went after her, feeling humiliated, and planning to kill his wife's lover. They were not far from Hay, when he found his fugitive spouse and son, along with the miner. Ferdinand was armed and he did not lose time demanding explications; he pointed his gun towards my father, who died in my mother's arms."

"But what happened to your poor mother afterwards?"

"Ferdinand Rochester was an arrogant man, he abhorred to be publicly humiliated, so he decided not to divorce my mother, making her stay by his side for appearance's sake, proposing to give his name to her unborn child. She hated him by then, she had seen him kill the man she loved...but she had no longer a family to turn to, her father had been dead for a few years, and the fortune she had once inherited was in the hands of her husband; she knew that she had no choice but to stay at Thornfield to play the role of the loving wife. She told me all of this that day, while she was slowly taken by the icy hands of death...Mother died that very afternoon, with me as her only companion to bid her goodbye as she left this Earth."

"It must have been a terrible lost for you, sir." I felt a wave a compassion grow within my heart, compassion for all the years of suffering Mr. Rochester had endured.

"It was. I was left alone in the world; a young lad who had lost the only kind being he had ever known. That day I swore to myself that I would one day take revenge for the murder of my father and for the quiet pain my dear mother had been forced to bear. And now you can see how destiny has alloted me a just vengeance: I am the sole master and possessor of everything Ferdinand Rochester held dear to his greedy heart...I, who was not to partake in the distribution of the old man's lands, have been given what he sought never to grant me. And yet, my little elf, I am the most miserable of men."

"Did your mother tell you your father's name."

"Yes, he was called Edward." he said, almost proudly. "But she...well, she did not have the time to give me more details about him, so I ignore his surname."

"What became of you after your mother's death?"

"I was sent to a boarding school, a place where I spent the rest of my adolescence. The old man desired to avoid scandal, and so he continued to assume my expenses; I never told him that my mother had confessed her secret to me. When I finished my studies, he told me in the clearest of terms that he wished me to be as far from him as possible, so he sent me to the West Indies, where he arranged for me to meet Bertha, but he was a sly man, and he knew that I would be suspicious if he were to be openly in favor of an union with the Creole, so he made me believe that he was quite antagonistic to my intentions of marrying her; it was too late when I realized how he had deftly pushed me towards that unhappy marriage...You know the rest of the story, Jane."

We did not speak for a time, listening to all those little noises which fill the silence of summer days. The warm air of the day had turned into a fresh, reviving wind, and the sun seemed to send its rays with less violence than before. Mr. Rochester sipped his wine, lost in his thoughts. I did not know what to think myself...Nothing had changed, and yet...I was confounded about the things he had told me, his story had taken me from the poignant feelings of compassion and sadness to the astonished sentiment of shocking surprise; my master's life had not been an easy one.

"And your friend, sir...Emma, what of her?"

"I never saw her again, for I spent the following summers at school, and once I was done there I went to live abroad, so I did not come to Ferndean for quite a few years after my mother's decease. It was only when I had become the owner of the Rochester's patrimony that I visited this place again. When I inquired about her, I was told that she had hung herself."

"Oh, Lord...How awful!"

"Yes. She had been utterly changed by that terrible incident, or so I was informed."

Mr. Rochester lay his head on the soft grass. He seemed to be exhausted, as if the weight of his revelations had been a heavy one. If I did not know he was blind, I would have thought that he was observing the maze of branches against the deep blue of the sky; his soul appeared to be at rest.

"So, Jane...You should not ask too much of my poor soul. I was born in sin, after all." said his sarcastic voice.

"I have not yet lost all hope of redeeming you, sir." He gave a low chuckle, and closed his eye.

"And you won't scorn me for being nothing but a mere commoner...?"

"Never, sir, for now we can finally talk from commoner to commoner." He smiled once again; oh, Lord, how I loved to see him thus, so content with what we had: a friendship that could never be more.

"You really are my friend, little sorceress." He added, as if he had read my thoughts.

Some graying strands of his hair were intertwined with bits of leaves and grass; I took them all off, very slowly, enjoying the delightful pleasure of running my fingertips through the softness of his hair.

"Continue, Janet...Do not stop..." Was all he said; somehow I did as I was bid, not wanting to put an end to that innocuous gesture. Some time passed before I ceased the caress.

"You have such tender hands, little one..." I blushed, but he was unable to see the reaction his words had caused.

Suddenly, a little drop of water fell on my face, and after some seconds others followed.

"What the...! Is it raining? But it was a perfect summer day only minutes ago! I will never understand this accursed weather!" Said Mr. Rochester, as he abandoned his comfortable position, sitting up.

Indeed. A beautiful day had given way, unexpectedly, to a downpour which menaced to sweep the heat of the last weeks. The canopy of trees above our heads protected us a bit, but it would be foolish to take refuge under the branches, for it was more than likely that the lightning would soon begin. We had to go back to Ferndean, but it would take us at least half an hour to reach the manor, and under such a deluge we would surely catch our deaths. An idea occurred to me.

"Sir, we could go to seek shelter at my house; the Evenwood cottage is closer than Ferndean!"

"That is a good idea, Janet...Otherwise we risk to die by drowning!"

"Take my hand, sir; we shall run as fast as we can..." We would soon be throughly drenched, for the violent rain pierced the vault of branches harboring us.

"What...? That is madness! You cannot possibly ask a blind cripple to run through the moors under such a heavy rain! I shall break my bloody neck, silly girl!"

"You shall not, for I will be guiding you. Do you trust me, sir?"

"I do, but..."

"Then give me your hand; I promise you everything will be fine." I did not feel very confident, for Mr. Rochester was much taller than I, and he was heavier as well; if he was to stumble while running, he would certainly cause me to trip as well...But it was no use to sharing my doubts with Mr. Rochester, for he had already doubts of his own.

"I know I should not trust you, impish creature." He put his hand out, regretfully, waiting for me to take hold of it; I took it in mine.

And we ran, hand in hand, as we had never run, letting the rain wash us from our faults and from our chagrins.


	9. Chapter 8: A Prelude to Downfall

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters from Jane Eyre...Sniff

**Note: **Ok, I'm really sorry, I know it's been a long time since the last time I updated. I wanted to update during the Christmas holidays, but I went to spend Xmas at my mom's and it was pretty hectic! And then when I came back home I was met by the fact that I had to study for some final exams I had to pass (I'm a college student, so that's pretty hectic as well, lol), and when I finally got rid of those awful exams I began to write this chapter...Besides sometimes it's pretty difficult to decide whether I want to spend my WE writing a new chapter or drawing (which is my other passion), or just reading (which is my biggest passion!)...so , well, that's why it took me so long...P

I promise you that I will finish this story, I have the whole plot already in my head, I'm so eager to get to the chapter where...well, I guess I won't be telling you in advance what's gonna happen next, hehe.

**Oh and thank you so much for your reviews, all of you, I love them so much!!** Thanks to _trueurbanite, Windinthereeds, Witchy-grrl, Cora, Sphynx87, elvespiratesandcowboysohmy, Darkened Purity, Graven Lament, Muskoka Girl, pippapear_, you guys make my day every time I read your nice comments! And very special thanks to _call2wrshp_, I was very happy to read your kind messages!

And now, read and enjoy!

**Chapter Eight**

The heavy rain hammered my face as I opened the ancient door to the cottage; to say that I was as drenched as a siren would be an understatement, dear reader. Taking Mr. Rochester's hand in mine, we crossed the threshold, flooding the wooden floor beneath our feet. The cottage was silent and its darkness welcomed us, a dimness that echoed the grayish clouds raging outside, unleashing their majesty over the land, but at least there was solid roof above our heads.

Mr. Rochester, stood awkwardly near the entrance, his powerful frame quite still, as if seized by an unknown uneasiness

"We are a pitiful sight, sir." I said, playfully, in an attempt to chase my friend's discomfort. I put my fingers in his large hand, and guided him to the modest armchair near the hearth. "Sit down and rest for a while, sir; I shall light us a fire."

"Would you need me to help you with the fire?" His voice was polite, and yet he pronounced his request in a strained manner.

"There is no need, sir. Be seated...that is all I ask of you, Mr. Rochester." I answered, while lighting a candle, which I set on the table nearest to my weary guest, knowing that, in spite of his blindness, he liked to be surrounded by light when dusk came, because the shimmering flame of a candle was the only thing his injured eye could discern.

"I would not want to ruin the upholstery, Jane, wet as I am." It would not be difficult to believe him to be the survivor of a shipwreck, with his shirt adhering to his arms, clinging to his shoulders, imprisoning his wide chest, and his hair, darker than ever, impregnated with the wild wetness of the storm, giving him the air of a half-drowned man.

"Do not mind the upholstery, sir, it is but a very humble armchair", said I, and so he sat, as I went to the kitchen to retrieve some logs for the fire.

A few minutes later, a raging fire warmed the room, transmitting us a sensation of well-being, a haven of security, after the violence on the unbridled tempest. I was leaving the drawing room to go to my bedchamber so that I could get rid of my soaking garments, when my silent guest halted me.

"I suppose Rivers will come home soon", his words had a stony edge, and his features were set in a tense expression.

Then I understood why he seemed to be so ill at ease: it was awkward for Mr. Rochester to find himself under the roof of a man he did not appreciate.

"St. John will not come home tonight, sir; he has left for London, where he will spend a few days...It is a matter which concerns his ministry."

His brooding expression was a bit softened by my answer. "Why did he not take you with him, Jane? I am sure that you would like to go to town, which would be a more amusing perspective than staying here to keep company to a burdensome cripple".

"A burdensome cripple! Is that how I am supposed to call my dearest friend? For you must know that I consider you so, Mr. Rochester." A sad smile was drawn on my Edward's visage. "But I rather enjoy staying here by myself, you know; I feel free."

"Free? What do you mean, Jane? You do not feel free when you are in River's company or..."

Had I revealed too much about how I felt towards my husband? Yes, I had spoken too hastily and too candidly. I had to try to dissipate his suspicions.

"Oh no, sir. I only meant that, when St. John is absent, I cannot refrain myself from wandering _freely _in the wild beauty of the moors."

"I see..." But it was obvious that I had not fooled him with my poor explanation.

I hurried to my chamber, where I exchanged my dripping gown for another one of my plain, grayish frocks, before taking a small towel to dry my damp hair, which had freed itself from its confining chignon. Before returning to the drawing room, I went to St. John's bedchamber, where I took a white linen shirt, hoping that it would fit Mr. Rochester, as he was a good head taller than John.

"Would you like a cup of tea, sir?", I proposed, once I had given a towel to my friend, casting a quick glance to the dismal weather battering the window panes with the force of its anger, as the wind howled eerily. "This frightful downpour does not appear to abate...I would think it wiser for you to spend the night here, Mr. Rochester."

I felt shy all of a sudden; I was inviting him, this man I loved with despairing passion, to spend the night here, with me, in such a secluded cottage; I was flushing, or so the heat of my cheeks told me, as a sour feeling of shame rose within me; I was a married woman, and yet my blood began to race at the thought of being alone with Mr. Rochester, with no one to intrude, with no one to judge, to see. _Jane Eyre, chase those impure, perfidious thoughts away! Yes, you love him, and cherish him you will until the final day of your petty life, but you have given your hand to another man, and to that man you are now tied, before God and before men._

"I am sorry to impose myself in such a way, Janet..."

"That is pure nonsense, sir. Now, if you cannot talk in a wiser manner, I shall leave you for a few moments while I prepare our tea." He remained silent, as if expecting me to leave him alone. I unfolded John's linen shirt, and took a step forward towards Mr. Rochester. "And you should change your shirt, sir, while I am in the kitchen." I gave him the garment, taking his only hand in mine, forcing his fingers to grasp the soft fabric. "Here, sir, I brought you a dry shirt." The only answer I was given was his silence; I was quitting the drawing-room when he finally spoke.

"Does it belong to Rivers?" I turned to look at him, but his dark expression was as unreadable as a starless midnight sky; crimson shadows came from the chimney, dancing wildly across his scarred left cheek, bathing his remaining, sightless eye with liquid fire, but that sole eye was dormant and I could not penetrate its profound darkness to see into my master's soul. I did not respond to Mr Rochester's question. "Do not ask me to wear _his _vestments, Jane" said he, and his voice was suddenly weary.

"Mr. Rochester, you cannot keep your own garments; you would surely catch your death and then where would I be?" I endeavored to speak in a light, almost merry manner, a hopeless attempt to cheer my companion up.

"I would not mind to welcome my own death, Jane" He stood up, aloof and melancholic, abandoning John's shirt on the armchair; he extended his right arm before him and took a few steps, hesitating amidst his world of blackness. I went to him, fearing that he might inadvertently walk too close to the fire; he tried to detach himself when he felt my left arm enveloping his forearm, but I held on tightly.

"Do not contemplate such dreadful ideas. Truly, I cannot bear to hear you talking about such horrible notions, sir." He turned himself towards me, and so we were facing each other; in the fiery and yet soft light of the drawing-room his dear, imperfect face showed more than ever the ravages left by the conflagration.

"You do not understand my pain, little one; you, who are so full of life, whose existence has only begun. I have led a life of solitude and shame, years of emptiness which have left me with a guilty conscience and a broken soul." He disentangled his arm from mine, and this time I did not prevent him from doing so; he brought his hand towards my head, and stroke my hair, gently combing the loose strands with his able fingers, making me stand still, halting my uneven breathing, and when his forefinger traced the lines of my plain face, my heart was near to bursting; eternity took us in its embrace while his trembling fingers danced upon my visage, barely touching me; his bowed head came to rest against my feverish forehead, then his lips grazed my right temple, not far from my ear, and his choked voice whispered: "Go, Jane. Do not let me pollute you..." He put his arms behind his back, and moved away from me, going back to the armchair.

I did not move, but I observed him being held in his prison of sadness; my husband's shirt was lying on the floor, I picked it up, knowing that Mr. Rochester would not wear it, comprehending the deep animosity he entertained towards St. John. " You think I do not understand your pain, sir, but the truth is that I feel your agony within my own breast, for I suffer as much as you do...because I lo...because I cherish you more than ever." And before he could say a thing, before my weak voice could surrender its artificial calmness to a river of threatening tears, I left him alone in the drawing-room, but even in my haste I had been able to distinguish the dramatic change my sincere words had brought upon him, upon his features, a change that resembled to the unexpected renewal of hope against all odds.

Once in the stillness of the dim kitchen I tried to regain a semblance of calmness; I felt cold, as if warmth could only be found within my master's arms; I felt numb, as if my spirit had deserted me, as if my whole being had chosen to stay wrapped around Mr. Rochester. And then I was hit by the force of the momentous revelation I had just made to my master, that confession of my undying love towards him, and even though I had tried to censure the truth I had conveyed to him, I knew that he had understood, for those words had only been a mirror to his own sentiments. I managed to prepare some tea, but my mind and my heart were restless; when our collation was ready I took a tray and disposed the cups of steaming beverage on it as well as a few pastries left from the day before.

I came into the drawing-room, and pulled a little, low table in front of the armchair where my guest was resting. "Your tea is ready, sir." I announced; I guided his hand to his cup. "Be careful, it is very hot."

"Thank you, Janet." Said my friend, and he sipped cautiously. He was now in a quiet mood, but he did not appear to be in a brooding frame of mind. For a few minutes we remained in tranquil silence, listening to the raging wind as it echoed the violent rhythm of the downpour.

"Would you read to me, Jane?" asked Mr Rochester, all of a sudden.

"Of course, sir...But, what would you like me to read to you?"

"I shall let you choose whatever you wish to read tonight, Jane. That is, if you are not too tired to humor me."

"Not at all, sir." I stared at the books lining one of the walls; those were St. Jonh's books, an endless collection of theological essays, but I knew that my master was not fond of religion, so those worn tomes would not be to his taste. I walked towards the shelves, searching for a book which Mr Rochester could appreciate. There was a faded little book in a forgotten corner, almost hidden by the heavy volumes surrounding it; I took it, fully knowing its title, for it had been given to me as a present from dear Diana Rivers; _yes, this will certainly do_, I thought, as a slight smile took hold of my features, almost against my will.

"All right, sir, if it is for me to choose tonight's reading then I shall choose something quite different from what I usually read to you." I wen to him and sat near his armchair, on a low stool.

"You have piqued my curiosity, elfish girl, so out with it!"

"Your curiosity is easily aroused, my dear sir. But if you long so to know what splendid story you shall hear tonight, know that I will read the Brothers Grimm's folk tales to you. Are you acquainted with them, sir?"

"What? You will read fairy tales to me?" His incredulous manner was quite amusing, and I could not prevent myself from smiling again. "Are you mocking me, little imp?"

"Why? You do not like fairy tales, Mr Rochester? Do you consider yourself to be too old for that kind of reading?" I asked, trying not to betray my mirth.

"Well, no...but...fairy tales...it has been so long since someone has read a bedtime story to me." His expression was very endearing, for he spoke like an innocent child, as a shy, boyish smile made him look years younger. "I...no, it is of no consequence; go ahead, Janet, read." His smile disappeared, and a heavy shadow descended upon his scarred visage, erasing the fleeting shadow of the smile which had freed his soul only seconds ago.

"So, let me find a story to begin with...Oh, yes, this is one of my favorite tales..." I cleared my throat, and began to read out loud. _"There were once a man and a woman who had long in vain wished for a child..."_ It was not long before my master and I were fully engrossed in the story of _Rapunzel, _where castles and princes existed alongside powerful charms and evil enchantresses. Other tales followed, which invited us to the kingdom of elves, talking animals and beautiful maidens. I spent hours reading to Mr Rochester, secretly enjoying the low chuckles he would give in response to the witty dialogues written by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm; my voice was tired, but I felt content and peaceful, as in the midst of a blissful refuge, where all my hopes had suddenly taken a real shape; I could have passed the rest of my uncertain life in this limbo of confined joy. The tall case clock down the corridor had just struck ten o'clock when I closed the book, _"...and they lived together in perfect happiness." _

For a few moments we did not exchange words; we were too enraptured in our own reflections. It was Mr. Rochester who spoke the first. "You do possess a remarkable talent, my little friend," he said, "you had me laughing like a madman with those bizarre accents you were capable of imitating, Janet! I thank you for those marvelous moments you have made me pass; you took me back to my early childhood, amazing witch that you are, my dear." And he smiled to me, sharing with me that special smile I had loved so well years before, when I was a mere governess under his roof, that smile which I still loved more than the brightest of fires.

"Was it your mother the one who read those tales to you, sir?" I demanded.

"Yes, it was her; she would come up to the nursery every night to read a story to me, and so I would have the most beautiful dreams. But she could not read those stories in such a vivid manner as you have just done, Jane; that is a rare gift, and I could never tire of listening to your sweet voice, little one."

"Sir, you are the most flattering person I have ever known; you speak of my plain, simple capacities as if they were the very qualities of a superior intelligence."

"And so they are, my little mustard seed." The charming, crooked smile lingered still upon his visage, transforming his features, "But you should go to bed, Janet, for I have heard the clock struck ten times...or perhaps you are waiting for me to turn my back so that you can go outside and do a magical incantation in the midst of that raging storm, in order to call your mysterious people?"

"I think I should never again read fairy tales to you, I see that they only feed your feverish imagination! And if you believe I am a fairy, which I can assure you I am not, then you surely are an ogre, Mr Rochester."

My companion laughed in a most joyful manner. "But I _am_ an ogre, my dear, and if you do not take yourself to bed I will hold you captive for the rest of the night, and you will have to keep on delighting my ears, reading childish tales to me till dawn brakes, like a modern _Shahrazad_..." His sightless eye was almost alive, even though his smile had faded away, leaving behind a serene countenance. "But do have some rest, as you must be exhausted after having taken care of an invalid for an entire day; besides, your voice tells me that you are tired, little one."

"You know that I am happy in your company, sir." I did not approve of the self-deprecating fashion in which he usually referred to himself. "But you are right, I really am tired; and you must be fatigued as well, so let me take you to your chamber."

"I can very well sleep here, Jane; the armchair shall do for the night."

"It might do if you do not mind waking with a painful neck and a stiff back tomorrow morning, sir." I took his hand in mine, grabbed a candlestick in the other one, and led him in the dimness of the hallway to the spare bedchamber, not heeding his protestations. I then proceeded to light a fire that would warm the icy chamber, and rested the candlestick on a low table near the four-poster bed, not wishing to leave my guest in absolute darkness.

"There, sir; everything is ready for you to have a comfortable night."

He did not respond, but took a few steps in the blackness surrounding him, finding the edge of the bed, where he sat.

"Thank you, Jane." The words came at last, almost whispered; his head was bowed, as if avoiding me, his only eye, which was still as dark as the inky nights of tempestuous winds, was downcast. I touched his arm, lightly, for there was no need to exchange words; his shirt was still wet. Infuriating man! His stubbornness would surely kill him one day, and at this very moment he was not far from catching his untimely death, in the form of pneumonia.

"Mr Rochester, you are utterly mistaken if you believe that I shall allow you to wear those wet garments for the night." I said, as firmly as I could, trying to imagine that I was admonishing a misbehaving child, not an intimidating, grown-up man. But as I saw a frown appear on his severe brow, my determination was a bit shaken; still I said, "Sir, you really should take those clothes off, you will burn with fever within hours if you spend the night in those chilly vestments..."

"I have told you that I shan't wear _his _clothes..." He averted his face, his strong profile meeting my eyes; his voice did not express any feeling, but the shadow obscuring his features showed me that he was vexed.

"Yes, I have understood your unreasonable words...But at least get rid of your shirt, sir, or you will be seriously ill in a few hours." I had been a bit intimidated by his formidable character only a few seconds ago, but his obstinacy was so unnerving that I was determined to bring him to reason.

"I have also told you that life is of no consequence to me..." His arms were tightly folded against his solid chest.

"But your life is very dear to me, sir; and I won't let you throw it away in such a witless manner." He did not say a thing; his unseeing eye tried to find me but, as it was unable to do so, it turned itself to the parquet, in a brooding fashion. I knew I had won this argument."Now, if you excuse me, I shall bring you a towel so you can dry yourself..."

When I came back to him, some time later, he was still clad in his dank garments; sighing, I prepared myself to recommence our verbal discord.

"Sir, you really are stubborn..."

"I cannot do it by myself, Jane", said he, barely rising his voice, stifling my disapproving words. "A grown man who is incapable of untying his own cravat...I am useless, _madam_." He chuckled bitterly, as if responding to a cruel jest; the defeat in his voice oppressed my soul.

I went to him, wanting nothing more than to be of use to my dear master. "Let me help you, sir." My fingers had only brushed his silky cravat when his large hand took hold of them, halting them, imprisoning them in its unyielding, yet gentle firmness.

"Leave me, Jane...I do not want you to see...I do not wish you to behold...my ugliness...Please." Said Mr Rochester, slowly, breathing heavily, as if trying to steady himself; his hand lost its pressure around my fingers. In the partial obscurity of the bedchamber, with a wild fire burning in the chimney and a candle for only sources of light, I did not see the running tear falling from his blind eye, leaving a trail of anguish upon his raw, marred skin, but I felt it as it touched the back of my hand.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear sir." Were the words which my heart released at that very moment, as my own eyes began to gather tears of their own.

My unsure fingers began to untie his tightly knotted cravat; I felt Mr Rochester stiffen, but he did not reject my shaking hands. It was quite complicated to undo the luxurious, dark fabric but it finally gave way. When I pulled the cravat from around Mr Rochester's neck, my eyes were met by scarred, burned flesh, which had been hidden by the elegant garment I had unfastened; I took in the ghastly sight, acute grief filling my heart, for those scars were deeper and larger than the ones left on my master's face, and the damaged skin held no resemblance to normal skin; I averted my eyes, wanting to burst into tears, as it was unbearable to see those painful marks upon Mr Rochester's body; my beloved closed his only eye, turning his face from me to the warmth of the fireplace.

"You may go now, Jane...I can manage to do the rest." Still he refused to face me; he turned his back to me, as his fingers tried to undo the buttons of his shirt, to no avail. "Blasted thing!", was all he said.

"Here, let me help you, sir." I was in front of him once more.

"I do not need your pity, Jane." His voice was tired. "Besides, I would not want to upset your sensibilities with the repulsive flesh that lies beneath these garments; believe me, your husband's fair body has not prepared you to look upon the marred limbs of someone who has burned in Hell." His sarcasm was biting, but what pierced my heart was his restless sorrow.

"I could never pity you, Mr Rochester...you are too formidable to earn one's pity." Was my only response, and I proceeded to get him free of his linen shirt. I felt the rapid beating of his heart; he was as nervous as I was, but in his blindness he was also afraid. I freed him from his clinging shirt, baring his disfigured trunk, revealing before my unbelieving eyes the devastating reminders the fire had left upon him; his torso was a tragic sight, a crude landscape where broken skin and raw blemishes covered his chest and arms; the flickering candle near us cast its halting light on Mr Rochester, guiding my abashed gaze to the pale lacerations marring his vigorous shoulders, lacerations which were the violent souvenirs his adoptive father had given him so many years ago.

He stood still, as incapable of moving as a flawed statue; somehow, after some moments, his deep, beautiful voice came forth.

"So, Jane, do you think me handsome?", were his uttered words, tainted by a bitter irony.

"Sir...", my voice trembled, and I knew that I could speak no more because there was a well of tears overflowing within me.

"Do I hear you crying? Oh, yes, it is only normal for you to be revolted at the mere sight of my hideousness, is it not?" The affection with which he usually addressed me had disappeared, and a taunting mordancy had taken its place.

But it was his aching vulnerability that I could not bear, as my latent love for him grew in passion and in pain at the sight of his abused body and soul. Deader reader, I had to tear my eyes from his suffering form, and so I left the room, choking sobs burning my throat.

XxXxXxXxXx

I slept very poorly that night. It was not long before I realized that my rash reaction towards my master could be, and would be, wrongly interpreted. It is true, I had run away from Mr Rochester, I had departed with haste from his dear presence, leaving him alone with an aching past crudely marked upon his body, abandoning him in his never ending world of darkness and painful memories; he would truly believe the sight of his scarred person to be the violent force which had driven me away from him; he had already assumed that my sensibilities had been offended by his disfigurements, and so he would think that he had awaken repulsion within my heart...and yet he would be so far from the truth hidden in the deepest recesses of my soul. I had not borne to look upon his injured frame for long, of that I was guilty, but the reason which had ravished me from his side, leaving him in his hopelessness, was not related to disgust...no, if I had left in such an abrupt manner it was because of the confusion he had provoked in me, the confusion and the searing pain; it was because of the iniquitous urge I had experienced in those tense moments by his side, when the physical reminders of his distress had called forth all the tenderness I could bestow, when I had almost confessed the ferocious feelings which had been overwhelming my besieged heart for years now, those feelings I had tried so hard to stifle, the ones I had longed to quell with the freezing waters of reason and the numbing balm of moral conscience. Reader, I had been thoroughly tempted to forget the laws of men, my senses had rebelled and they would have forsaken Our Lord's Commandments if I had not fled Mr Rochester's poignant, and yet alluring presence.

Dishonor and shame were to be my companions during the restless hours of night, for I had been on the verge of openly declaring my despairing love to my beloved master, and such a revelation could only be the prelude to our downfall.

XxXxXxXxXx

As I left my bed, the next morning, I was greeted by beams of light filtering through the ancient curtains; there was a world of radiant beauty beyond my window; another warm, sunny day had begun, erasing the bleakness of the storm which had assailed the moors the day before. I hoped this peaceful landscape would be a heavenly sign, that the agitation which had held me prisoner during the night would go away with the dark clouds that had shadowed the land only a few hours ago.

After I had finished my toilet I headed to the kitchen, wishing to prepare breakfast; that menial task would help me to chase unwanted thoughts, for if I were to remain idle I knew that my mind would dwell upon matters which I would be wiser to avoid. As I was passing the drawing-room, I was rather surprised when I found Mr Rochester near the window, his head leaning on the window pane; he was so still one could have thought that he was admiring the artistic beauty of nature, or that he was studying the birds singing on the high branches of the tall trees that shaded the cemetery surrounding the cottage, and yet his eye had lost its luster of yore and fate had taken away its life, but for a fleeting moment I could have forgotten that he was a man forever living under a midnight sky; his dark hair reflected the golden brightness coming from the outside, and his entire being was a contrast of dark shadows touching the pureness of light; it was a scene of beautiful sadness.

"I trust I did not wake you up." asked Mr Rochester, in an inexpressive voice, as he continued to face the window. His acute ear had heard my light steps.

"No, sir, I assure you that you did not."

"It is a beautiful day outside, isn't it? I can feel the warmth of the sun, and there is a luminous radiance that even my eye discerns...I shall very much enjoy walking to Ferndean under such a limpid sky. Indeed, I am eager to go back to the manor; there are things I must attend to..."

"I enjoy having you as guest, sir; you must know that I cherish the moments we spend together, you do not need to depart in such a haste.." Those words were spoken in a hushed voice and they tasted like lies, for had not I failed him the night before when I had left him alone without a word, without an explanation? As I watched him being touched by the glorious light of the late summer's morning I felt the fear within my bosom that he would, somehow, take back the trust and friendship he had given me to replace the love we had once openly shared. "Sir, what happened last night...I would like to explain..."

"No explanations are required; I understand fully well that a scarred body such as mine can be a disturbing sight." His clenched fist was the only sign showing his inner struggle while pronouncing these words, as his voice had remained calm, almost indifferent.

"Sir, I was not disturbed..." I took a few steps towards him.

"Can you not see, Jane? Does a blind man have to lead you in the threatening uncertainty that surrounds us?" His calm demeanor was gone, the indifference in his voice had transformed itself into something akin to passion. "We will never conquer all the obstacles between us, and there are countless dangerous traps waiting for us, even in this odd friendship we have built between us. Inner pain is like a sinister menace hovering over our heads, Janet, eager to attack us, and so one of us has to suffer, one of us has to bear the weight of a grief caused by unspoken words and ignored feelings; it is all part of this truce we have implicitly agreed to. Last night..."

"Sir, last night I did not mean to...", my words were weak, for I was not quite sure what I would tell Mr Rochester in order to explain, without revealing too much, the complex feelings which had filled my being the night before.

"There is no further need to speak about it. I will only say that your sudden departure reminded me of the insurmountable abyss separating us, and believe me, it is for the better, or else...Oh, the deuce take me! It was a foolish thing indeed to spend the night here." He faced away again, as if basking in the cascading light passing through the thick window panes, but in the forlorn set of his shoulder I could read his defeat; and yet he was right, no more words should be said concerning those marking moments we had shared the night before. He had been wounded by my thoughtless response to his marred body, had he not? Oh Lord, I would have embraced Death rather than hurt my dear master, but hurt him I had, and he was now asking me to desert him in his solitary affliction.

"You had no choice, sir. You know well that it was impossible to go back to Ferndean."

"Perhaps. But today there is no raging wind nor deluge battering the moors, and so I shall go back." His profile met my eyes. "However, I am constrained to demand you to come with me, for obvious reasons..."

"And I shall be delighted to accompany you to Ferndean, Mr Rochester, but we are not leaving without having a proper breakfast."

"Breakfast? Oh, yes, you must be hungry."

"And you, sir, you are not hungry?"

"I am not in the habit of having breakfast; a cup of tea is sufficient nourishment for my body. But do eat, as I would not want to famish you before dragging you out for a long walk...that would only give you a reason to call me a heartless tyrant."

"Indeed, but I do believe that I shall behave like a tyrant myself, for I am determined to force you to have breakfast with me, sir." I passed my hand through the crook of his right arm, carefully avoiding to touch him more than it was necessary, for I was still afraid of myself, of the hidden reactions he seemed to create within me.

"_You shall force me?_ You must be jesting, you girlish elf. What if I refuse?" I pulled him gently, but as if to illustrate his words, the tall man standing by my side refused to be moved, and my gentle tug was no match for his strength. "You cannot force me, delicate fairy that you are." His lips curved into a playful smile, which softened his serious profile very briefly, before becoming once more the stern sentinels of his guarded secrets.

"Then I shall refuse to accompany you back to Ferndean, Mr Rochester." Mr Rochester faced me this time, his only, pitch black eye fixed on my countenance, as if to gauge the earnestness held in my words.

"You insufferable child...You will make me lose my patience, Jane. Go and break your fast, but do leave me alone and aim you impishness to another human soul, for I am not in the mood to playfully bear your insolence." His voice contained the barely hidden annoyance of the Mr Rochester I had served years ago, the changing master who had taken possession of my entire being.

"And so now I am an insolent child, sir?" was my ready, unintimidated answer, for his disagreeableness was only another trait of his attractive personality.

"You have always been one, cheeky lass! But I am not an utter dolt and I do know that if I refuse to humor you, you will condemn me to go back to my abode on my own. So I am yours, madam, to do as you please with..._Young despot!_" The powerful arm beneath my hand lost its strength, and so I had no difficulty to tear my master away from the light pouring through the window, and to steer him towards the kitchen.

"Sir, your manners are rather lacking, not at all those expected from a distinguished gentleman."

"I never claimed to be "_a distinguished gentleman", _milady." His expression had not changed, but there was a note of dry humor in his words, and his arm did not shrink from my guiding touch; all was well for the time being, as our hesitant friendship had overcome the tempest.

XxXxXxXxXx

Singing larks filled the silence between us as Mr Rochester and I advanced, my arm comfortably around his, on the path leading to Ferndean. We had spoken only a few words since leaving my cottage, and those conversational attempts had been instigated by me, mainly to describe, as it was my wont, the peaceful landscape surrounding us, but seeing that my master did not respond with equal enthusiasm, I had left him alone with his meditations.

"Jane..." he said, after many a minute of silence; I turned my face to meet his visage, neglecting the wild beauty of the moors I had been observing so intently, for I wished to memorize its subtleties to display them on a future drawing. "There is a recurrent thought which refuses to leave since yesterday, you know? Oh, it has nothing to do with your hospitality, which was so gracefully bestowed upon me; it is something that concerned the conversation we had near the lake."

"I do not follow, sir..."

"Well, I realized what a detailed depiction I had given you of Ferdinand Rochester, my so-called _father_; you see, it had been so many years since I had last spared a thought for that infamous wretch, and yet, lately, I have understood that he and I are rather alike; I believe I do not need to tell you that I am thoroughly disgusted by that thought, Janet."

"That is absurd, sir, you are nothing like him!" I was outraged that he could contemplate such an outlandish idea, and my voice had expressed full well my sentiment.

"Let me explain my words, Jane," he affectionallly brushed my hand with his, but only for a second or so, before hastily withdrawing his fingers from my skin. "You have such a high opinion of me, my lo...my friend, and yet, God knows that I do not deserve it, nor do I deserve your trust...But you see, that man and I, we are not as different as I would like to think: Ferdinand Rochester loathed me because I was the living reminder of my mother's adultery, and for this I was mistreated with a vicious hate no child should experience; in my young days I had solemnly vowed to myself, and to my mother, that I would never turn into such a monster, but it seems that I have broken my promise; Adele, she... "

"But you have never touched Adele, sir; on the contrary, you have kept her safe, and..." Why could Mr Rochester not see that there were goodness in his heart and gentleness in his acts?

"No, Jane, you misjudge me once again; I am not an altruistic protector. I have spurned Adele for so long, only because her indiscreet mother had once wounded my youngish pride. She is not my daughter, of that I am convinced, and anyone with half a brain would agree with me; nonetheless, I took her in when her mother had abandoned her, sensing that it was the _"right and honorable" _thing to do; however, instead of becoming an adopted father for the poor girl, I behaved like the unfeeling owner of a worthless trifle, not caring that the child needed me to be her sole source of affection; she was only begging for the warmth of love and I responded to her with the coldness of derision; it is true that I never harmed her, but that is only because I could never touch a child with a violent hand, and yet my words and indifference must have hurt her, Jane." My beloved friend harbored a serious, strained expression; he was undoubtedly being held by the torturing grip of conscience. "We are both bastards, the little Parisian and I, brought to life by another's sins, I know what she feels in her solitude and yet I have been cruel to her...So I am no better than him, than the man who killed the father I have longed to know since my youth,and this notion has been plaguing me since the moment it entered my mind."

"Mr Rochester, your coldness towards Adele will never resemble to the meanness you endured as a child. I do agree that sometimes you were a bit disparaging to her, and I often demanded you to be kinder to the child, but, in your own fashion, you were a good guardian to your ward, and I know that Adele loves you very dearly despite your past faults." A warming smile crept upon my lips as I recalled how my young student used to prattle about her _ami Monsieur Edouard Fairfax de Rochester_.

"Perhaps, for she is a sweet-natured child. She used to write unending letters from school, saying that she missed me so terribly, that she would rather be by my side than surrounded by a multitude of girls...Mrs Fairfax would read those letters to me, but I never asked her to give them an answer, being the insensitive man that I am. Adele has not written to us for a long time now."

"We could write to her, sir." I was immensely touched by the concern my abrupt master was showing for his neglected ward; he was seeing beyond his own pain, he was wishing to quell a little girl's sorrow.

"No, Jane, I believe that a mere missive would not do. I was thinking about visiting her; I have not once visited her since she was placed in that boarding school."

"I think it would overjoy her to see you, Mr Rochester. It will do you good to talk to the child, sir, and she would be so grateful for your gesture."

"Precisely, that is what I have been telling myself. But I am sure you would not care to join me for such a visit, Janet, or would you?" His eye was focused on the path we followed, and his calm demeanor revealed nothing of the casually spoken words.

"I would be glad to see Adele again, sir...if you do not mind me coming with you?" His fingers took possession of my hand, keeping it in their gentle grasp for a while; my cheeks were flushed and my soul was pleased by his spontaneous caress.

"Your company is more than welcome, my little Jane; we shall go together." His kind words were like a soothing lullaby, bringing joy to my uncertain heart. "But this visit shall take us far from here, and we will not come back before two days. I wonder if Rivers will object to the fact that...well, that we shall be spending so much time together, on our own, for Mrs Fairfax will surely refrain from coming with us; what if _he_ does not approve of it?" As if realizing for the first time that he had been holding my hand for a few moments, Mr Rochester let go of it.

My companion's words made me think of the confrontation I had had with John, the eve of his depart, when he had made clear to me that I, as his wife, would honor Our Lord by obeying my husband. As I recalled this, I felt a feeling of rebellion grow within my bosom, for I knew that God had created me to be the equal of my fellow men, giving me freedom and intellect; why could John not understand that I was not a witless creature to be ordered around?

"St. John shall not come back before a few days, Mr Rochester, but even if he were to return tomorrow, he would be sadly mistaken to think that a free woman, such as I am, is to be restrained from going where her will takes her." The words had only crossed the threshold of my lips when Mr Rochester halted his step, forcing me to come to a halt as well; his wandering eye fixed a point near my visage, as an amused expression took hold of his features, and his only hand came to rest upon my shoulder, shaking it lightly; I was not prepared to the roar of laughter that invaded my ears all of a sudden.

"The devil take me, that was the best speech I have ever heard, girl!" I was forced to laugh as well, a little emboldened by his jocular reaction, and yet feeling somewhat apologetic for the manner in which I had spoken of my husband; had I gone too far? "It really is you, my mischievous elf, you _really _are back; I am ecstatic to know that _this marriage _to a puritan minister has not bereft you of your witchy nature."

We spent some moments in a silence which was impregnated with merriment; only afterwards were we ready to resume our stroll, my hand resting on the crook of his arm, softly steering him, feeling warm when his laughter would resonate, again and again, loving how his blind eye would almost spark; perhaps my dear master had spoken true, for I knew that in his blindness he could see what I could not discern in my world of light; perhaps I was still his unchanged Jane Eyre.


End file.
